Diary Entry for June 27, 2013

Quoting the song you sung on the way to our last Starbucks trip:
"Every little thing she does is magic... now I know my love for her goes on." -The Police (Every Little Thing She Does is Magic)

Dear Mom,

The thing about slow dancing is that it is the most intimate and eloquent way to spin in circles with someone.

Maybe I have been dancing in a graveyard for the last six years in the hopes that if I spin to infinity, it would keep you alive. But the truth is, I have to face the music. 

Nothing and no one can bring back my best friend. Nothing and no one can give me forever-- because it is impossible to create an infinity in a finite amount of time.

And honestly beyond all of the above, I am starting to get dizzy from all this spinning. 

No sequence of turns will hinge the fact that the songs I have sung and danced to with you have ended, the music has dissolved, and reality called.

In fact, today Dad is dancing with someone else.

The thing is, I truly admire that he found the courage to let go of your hands, the hands that lost its pulse six years ago.

Because it is so remarkable and admirable to learn how to hold the hands of someone else. 

And just because Dad found a new song to sing and dance to in the arms of someone else does not take away from the steps he learned thanks to you.

Originally today was a day I had dreaded all of my life...

... the day I could count the years my best friend passed away with more than one hand.

But instead of counting the hours, minutes, and seconds for this day to end, I will spend today dancing—and not just in a graveyard.

Because I know that regardless of whom I choose to dance with in my life, your favorite song will always define what you are in my life— the ultimate Dancing Queen (yes, I still remember all of your favorite songs).

Mom, there may be no such thing as an infinity in our finite lives, but everyone can learn how to dance.

Love, Lela

Why She Will Be Loved

Personal Note~ I originally wrote this article for a blog I work for, www.literallydarling.com. However, I've decided to also share it on here because of how much it means to me. I am not quite sure how relatable this was, but it was honestly one of the hardest pieces I had ever written (aka 2 1/2 hours of crying, drinking coffee, and staring at a computer screen at 3AM). 

I just want to address upfront that, regardless of the past, some memories should remain recognized within the moment-- not after the fact. Anyway, I hope you guys like this one! 

xx Ella

Suitcases and boxes sat in an assembly line fashion in my bedroom. The two-week mark into my summer had approached, meaning that spring cleaning was far overdue. I was finally ready to unpack, but first I turned on my all-time favorite song, She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5.

“Beauty queen of only eighteen
She had some trouble with herself
He was always there to help her
She always belonged to someone else”

They say there is nothing like your first love. That must explain why five years later, the walls of my bedroom still gleam the fluorescent bright green color we painted them, despite the not so bright outcome of our relationship.

“Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile”

I thought to myself– okay I can worry about my wall decorations later, when lo and behold, I stumbled upon my sophomore year yearbook that’s titled “What I Have Become” in big red letters. Interestingly enough, my sophomore year signifies the year I fell in love for the first time. Anyway, as I read through the two-page note written by my first love in my yearbook, something hit me. While there laid the notes and memories spelling out what I had become at that time in my life, I could only wish to read words printed in big red letters spelling out what I will become for the rest of my life. Something else hit me too, I still needed to unpack.

“I know where you hide alone in your car
Know all of the things that make you who you are”

My bedroom used to be the one place I was not scared of being alone. However as I was spring cleaning, I was distracted by the realization that my safe haven was suddenly threatened by that very fear. Whether it was due to a flip of my yearbook page or a blink of an eye, all of a sudden it had dawned on me what I had originally thought made my bedroom so safe. What I had conducted to believe would make my room a place of security, in fact, made it the complete opposite as a result of coping against the thought of being alone. My bedroom wound-up being my biggest contradiction as it had evolved into a memorial for all my past relationships.

“I know that goodbye means nothing at all
Comes back and begs me to catch her every time she falls”

I still have the one thousand paper cranes that my first love folded for me, which is located in the same room where my second love’s plaid shirt is folded for my keeping.

“Tap on my window, knock on my door
I want to make you feel beautiful”

As the song concludes with the words,

“Please don’t try so hard to say goodbye”,

echoing in the background of the chorus line, I cannot help but recall all the instances when I had tried and succeeded at saying goodbye– all the more reason why I fear being alone in the end. But the mere fact that, without even trying, my bedroom had practically been transformed into a gallery of others’ hearts that have come and gone, only further indicates that my fear is illogical.

No big red letters need to be printed in order to spell out what will become of the girl that was once loved in the yearbook, because she will conquer her fear of being alone since she knows that:

“She Will Be Loved”.

How to Celebrate Mother's Day Without a Mom

“There's a story behind everything, but behind all your stories is always your mother's story... because hers is where yours begins.”
-Mitch Albom

I praise Mitch Albom as a man of words, because he phrased my outlook in life much better than I ever could. Albom is the author of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, a novel I read in 8th grade, as well as a novel I could not personally relate to until a few days after my 8th grade graduation, when my mom became one of the five people I would hope to meet again in heaven. 

Six years have passed since I last celebrated Mother's Day with my mom. Whereas, for the last five years, I have spent that holiday hiding in my sheets hoping that by keeping my sheets hidden shut, it would in turn, keep my heavy heart hidden and shut as well.

Let's be honest- Hallmark created this holiday simply as a business tactic. And for the sake of Hallmark, they should feel beyond fortunate that in the past, I chose to spend this day by wasting it in hiding from a world that banished the one woman I look up to. Because if we lived in a world where my imagination was justified and acted upon (which to certain extents could and should never happen), I would riot against Hallmark and all the nonsense holidays they have created. However, right when I am ready to get out of bed and riot, I remember the one woman I look up to and realize that while I look up to her, she would hate to look down on me in these conditions. Indeed my mom lays under a tomb, yet she would never wish for me to spend a single day of my life as if I lay under a tomb with her.

With all the above said, the best Mother's Day gift I can give to a mother that cannot celebrate the holiday with her daughter is to get out from under the tomb I have created and not riot. 

Six years have passed since I last celebrated Mother's Day with my mom. Six years have passed since my little sister and I recorded a video, in which we took turns exchanging some of the various reasons why we love Miss Milagros DaCosta Cajayon, aka the woman we are fortunate enough to call Mom. I will never forget watching my mother cry as she watched us in the video. That was the first and only time I had ever seen her cry, which is why I will not riot against Hallmark. Their creation of made-up, nonsense holidays may be tearjerkers, but the tears relinquished on these holidays do not necessarily have to be tears for a tombstone.

This Mother's Day, my gift to her is that I will not let her see me cry, and instead, look forward to the day she will be one of the people I meet again in heaven.

Cooler Than a Wallflower

"Au rire on connaît le fou."
 -French Proverb

At a young age, I was taught to never eat with my elbows on the table and to walk as if my head and shoulders were attached to strings connected to the sky. From the moment I could talk, I was told to always think before I speak, annunciate the words "please" and "thank you", and count my blessings in moments of silence.

At 20 years old, I won four awards within the same week, and consequently all these awards seemed to reiterate on a common theme of positivity. Upon receiving these awards, I could not help but elude how proud I was of myself, since I have always portrayed myself as a wallflower. On top of that, I was almost positive that I had relinquished my title of a wallflower, after I won first place in the only real competition I have ever signed up for in my entire life. However my thoughts completely shifted when someone admitted that their favorite aspect about me was not when I am poised, which would credit to my awards, but rather when I am outspoken. 

This made me question whether or not I have truly exceeded past my days as a wallflower, and in fact made me ponder if maybe my infamous positivity and bubbly spirit have merely confined me even more so as a wallflower. As bizarre of a concept that may seem, it quickly translated into common sense that is as simple as my everyday decision on whether to buy coffee or not. Just like the coffee I drink that runs through my veins, eventually the caffeine I consume will wear off leaving me exactly where I started.

At a young age, I was introduced to coffee, too. Hence, full circle.

No matter how much cream and sugar I add to my coffee, my coffee will always start from coffee beans. Just like no matter how positive I am, or whether I eat with my elbows off the table, or walk as if my head and shoulders were attached to strings connected to the sky, or think before I speak while annunciating the words "please" and "thank you" as I count my blessings in moments of silence, who I am will always rely on where I started. 

I may be poised or I may be outspoken, and that is what makes me cooler than a wallflower.

Under Construction

"There is no art to find the mind's construction in the face."
-Shakespeare

I have never been a believer of coincidences. Yet when I woke up to white noise conducted by orange cones and construction work surrounding a place I call home, a change of heart rung like the alarm clock I needed, in order to grasp a long overdue wake-up call. 

It has almost been a year since I retired the occupation of "boyfriend girl", a career in which I consumed my heart into the arms of someone else's, because it felt safer there than in my own. I was 15 when I found someone who could hold the weight of my heart despite my monkey ears; I was 17 when I discovered that my heart could be safe in more than one person's arms; and I was 19 when I realized that I wanted my heart back. Do not get me wrong, the arms that held my heart were sturdy and secure, and I am beyond blessed that I was lucky enough to ever find a steady love, even more than one, to call my own. It is well apparent now how difficult that is to come by. But at the time, I wanted to challenge myself to become sturdy and secure enough to hold onto my heart without the arms of a steady love, and yet, still feel safe. However at 20, I am realizing that I am accomplishing quite the opposite.

Waking up to sudden construction work was the exact push I needed to realize that I do not need the sidewalks to feel safe. Tripping over the potholes on the street may be what is responsible for the orange cones that now surround my heart. But regardless of whether coincidences exist or not, those orange cones will not surround my house forever, nor will the need to protect my heart.

>40

Dear Dad, 
Here's to your birthday! If anyone asks how old you are, just say you are >40. And do not feel hesitant about saying that because we have heard first-hand of other people doing that! Also, technically speaking-- it would not be lying! 

Although this is coming from the girl who was a good enough liar to throw you a surprise 40th birthday party, the thing is, it really would not be a lie! You truly are so much greater than 40! I realize how bad that comes off, but I am not referring to your age, Mr. I-am-her-brother-not-her-dad! What I am trying to say is that you are so much greater than 40, because you are so much more than any number could measure up to or define. 

You are my dad, you are my hero, you are the weight of my world. 

I will always remember when we were in the hospital room and you told Anica and me that it would just be the three of us now. I will always remember the fear in your eyes when you broke that news to us. And I will always remember when I overheard you saying that if either you or Mom had to go, you wish it would have been you.

Those are some of the things I will always remember and these are some of the things I want you to always remember in return. Disregarding all our countless yet crucial mall outings, if there is one thing I could ever sincerely ask of you, it would be to take back that last statement. Granted, I would not even be the slightest all right without you or Mom. However, do not ever convince yourself for a second that she would have raised us better than you.

After all, you are my dad, you are my hero, you are the weight of my world. 

I aspire to be just like you. I swear, you deserve to be an official Marvel super hero, with an entire movie series production bought by Universal Studios, to commemorate all you have done for Anica and me. Yet for clarification purposes: Zac Efron would not play you. But seriously Dad, it is literally inhuman the powers you have, the strength you hold. You wear your heart as if it were an invisible cape, and you rescued us when we were in trouble. 

That is why you are my hero and the weight of my world; because you're my dad-- which makes me the luckiest girl alive.

So Happy 44th Birthday, Daddy! :) You are greater than 40, and likewise, my love for you is infinite. 

Twenty Candles

"You can't be 16 forever."

-Molly Ringwald 

My mom would always tell me about Miss Molly Ringwald and how she was the "it" girl of the 80's. And that is the exact reason why I should not have been afraid to turn 20 yesterday.

For starters, I am the master at the numbers game. The way the game works is one is entitled a number that defines him or her for 365 days. As of yesterday, my number in this game is my 20th birthday. 

When I think of 20, I think of the twenties. 20 marks the start of adulthood; while the twenties mark the decade my parents fell in love. 20 marks the age I am entitled to for 365 days; while the twenties mark the first and brand new decade I will live through without the mom my dad fell in love with. 

But to reiterate, I am the master at playing the numbers game, which is why I did not let my birthday scare me. The thing is, there is a loophole to every game and here is the loophole to mine. Although turning 20 seemed like a page turner for a new chapter of my life that I would have to write without my mom, to define my life in solely written numerical form is to limit myself entirely. 

No matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will always hold the prize of remembering the countless times my mom talked about Molly Ringwald, the "it" girl of the 80's. Therefore, just like that, no matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will forever hold the prize of being able to share all the memories of my mom, the "it" girl of a lifetime. 

And that is the exact reason why I am not afraid of being 20. 

Carpe diem.

Happy New Dear

"Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us."  

- Hal Borland  

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there he was: happy New Dear to me. I swear it was as if he had stolen the imaginary clipboard I carry, which contains a list of all my qualifications (and yes, he even wore plaid without knowing what that means to me).

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there I was: petrified. While I was checking off the boxes on my imaginary clipboard, it was all I could do to rewind my love life in a timeline fashion. There was the bad-boy-gone-good-gone-bad-again who evolved from a silly nickname, to the boy who made a 1,000 paper cranes for me in hopes of making my wildest dreams come true, to my first ever heartbreak. Then there was the skater boy who went from being the guy who's name and hands were practically puzzle pieces to mine to transpiring into my first ever heartbreaking. Which led to the messes that cluttered the time in-between then and now, now being the new year and my new dear. 

Because as quick as the arrival of the new year was the arrival of my new dear.

The feeling that emerged with this new dear was uncanny to the sensation that escalates during the last five seconds before the New Year's Eve ball drops. Except this time, rather than celebrating the new year afterwards, I turned off the TV. As easy as a click of a button, I closed the door on someone who deserves an abundance of my time, or at least time that surpasses a New Year's countdown.

But I am starting to believe that the concept of years and time itself are simply our way of measuring memories and inventing tangible pieces of hope and possibilities. Although I may have turned off the TV on my new dear, I have a whole year to figure out the reason why, which may explain why we make New Year's resolutions to begin with.

Just as I can count on the New Year's Eve ball to drop at a specifically given time, likewise, eventually I can count on my imaginary clipboard to drop at any given time.

And although the countdown has ceased, the TV is now turned back on: Happy New Year's, and eventually, Happy New Dear to me.