Grace is neither a function of beauty nor an extension of elegance. It is possible for one to be both beautiful and elegant yet not possess much grace.

There are many definitions of grace. It may be a noun, a verb, a form of prayer, or an honourific title. It may allude to a divine quality, describe a person’s comportment, or one’s elegance of movement. The grace that I will speak of is one that is simple yet elusive.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh once said, “I want, first of all…to live ‘in grace’ as much of the time as possible…by grace I mean an inner harmony, essentially spiritual, which can be translated into outward harmony.”

That grace—achieved by aligning the internal and external—is rare in today’s world. Like Lindbergh, I believe in harmonious alignment. I am convinced that there is no space for dissonance between our private and public selves as the fracture will become apparent sooner than later. Romanticists and fatalists talk of the need for the stars to be aligned. Governments speak of an alignment of allies, of like minds and geopolitical needs. My belief is smaller and more personal: I merely want to believe that our souls are reflected in our faces, and that our smiles or frowns are mirrors of what lies within.

Grace was the name of my second mother, my fifth aunt, a woman who was full of love. Although it wasn’t her given name—it was bestowed upon her by the linguistically-challenged British nuns at her boarding school—it fit her. It was as if they sensed the woman she would become from the shy and tall pig-tailed child who stood before them. My mother Ni Ni would be renamed Noreen; other aunts were to become Marie, Mabel, Stella, Gladys, and Caroline. Mu Mu, the fifth of seven sisters, became Grace.

I bring her into this conversation because she embodied what Lindbergh referred to. She lived with a sense of equanimity and harmony with those around her and those who were seen, perhaps by society, to be beneath her. She was kind to all and by being so, she put all at ease. Mu Mu/Grace planned dinners for hundreds being the wife of an important man, and as naturally as she herself cooked a simple meal for her husband. The joy that people experienced in partaking of her meals was reward enough. She asked for little yet gave much away. Her smile was in harmony with her inner sunshine. She was aligned.

In closing, I realise that grace is neither a function of beauty nor an extension of elegance. It is possible for one to be both beautiful and elegant yet not possess much grace, just as it is possible to have it but not the others.

Grace is ultimately a barometre of how we conduct ourselves in life.

Like I have repeatedly stated, life is too short to please others so enjoy your beautiful life with love and gratitude.

The celebration of life is a wondrous gift that I enjoy as often as I can. I have realised early on that if you live your life just to please others constantly, the exhausting process will make you unhappy and dissatisfied.

We are all unique beings and put on this earth as God’ s gift; so why not live it the best we can as ourselves. The universe has a place for our own uniqueness so I fill my personal space with ME … in my own form, void of judgement and external concerns. Like I have repeatedly stated, life is too short to please others so enjoy your beautiful life with love and gratitude.

It truly takes a lot of time and effort to transform yourself into another look that requires enough confidence to wear it proudly. Being yourself may be frightening at first because of external factors, but it is quite liberating to remove that mask and let the world see the beauty of you! I may still wear multiple-coloured and feathery masks but I am happiest just being myself on the beach with the people who matter most to me!

It’s less stressful and more energising to be authentic. I enjoy dressing the way I want, listening to music I enjoy, and speaking my mind. It’s fun and liberating. Authentic, empowered, and unique are traits we are blessed with.

I think the ultimate goal of human beings is to make a difference. Fame to me is like mayonnaise: it makes things yummier but it can also be fattening.

“Fame! I’m gonna live forever. I’m gonna learn how to fly...” Much has been said (and sung) about this “other F word” that people secretly dream and aspire for. I’m not talking about food but of something as weirdly addictive: fame.

We grew up in a society that likes to be recognised, given a pat on the shoulder, a medal of valour, a Like on your social media. For some, fame is a drug; for others it is a lover who gets better with time or wasn’t just meant to be.

Whatever it is, just like the things that people pine for, fame is neither good nor bad. It can be good or bad for you. It’s what you make of it in the end. Fame for fame’s sake can be shallow and narcissistic. I have seen the most famous of human beings collapse when the audience disappears, when their by-lines are blurred, when the spotlight fades. Life can be dark and depressing.

Yet, I am also exposed to people who still have that joy within them knowing that these things don’t last. These are people who know that fame doesn’t make you any better than anyone. There are perks, yes. A lot, sometimes. Enjoyable, of course. But really: what better perk is there than knowing that through one’s “fame,” one can make another person’s life better? That with one’s talent and other gifts, one can actually make a difference. Fame used for good is good.

I think the ultimate goal of human beings is to make a difference. Fame to me is like mayonnaise: it makes things yummier but it can also be fattening. We live in a world where people are starting to be more enlightened. The search is for lasting joy, not temporary delight. So while we are at it, let’s start trimming the fat and lead healthier lives.

Now, pardon me as I end this monologue of mine as I still have to upload my photo to Instagram.

I have lived comfortably with the duality of my mixed heritage... I like that I am both Spanish and Filipino... and proud that I can traverse both cultures with ease

The recent political turmoil in Catalunya brought into sharp focus for many people, including myself, the meaning of national identity in general, and Spanish-ness in particular. I have always felt a deep connection to my Spanish roots; as horribly entitled as it sounds, I suppose I have my Spanish heritage to thank for, at the very least, my complexion, which has enabled me to pass as “white” whenever convenient.

I have lived comfortably with the duality of my mixed heritage all my life. I like that I amboth Spanish and Filipino, and proud that I can traverse both cultures with ease. I am less proud of the fact that my Filipino linguistic skills are woefully inadequate. Give me a choice between, say, ¡Hola! and Pep, and I will have to admit, rather sheepishly, that I would read the Spanish weekly effortlessly from cover to cover, taking in the breathless chronicling of the lives of los Reyes and various duques and marqueses, however predictably perfect and boring they were bound to seem after a few pages. The Filipino magazine, on the other hand, would present a serious challenge to my attention span, and the blame rests entirely on me for not cultivating true fluency in the Filipino language.

I nevertheless remain that person who willingly hands over 72 hours of her life to watch Gran Hotel without subtitles and then eat nilagang baka with rice and patis.

Like all telenovelas, Gran Hotel was schmaltzy, implausible, and seriously addictive. One of the things I found irresistible about the series was the location—dramatic, verdant, spectacular, and romantic. This was Santander, where my grandfather came from,  a region that to me has taken on a mythic quality because none of my immediate family live there anymore. All of my grandfather’s siblings decamped long ago for Barcelona and raised their families there. Some married Catalans. All of them speak or at least understand Catalan, and most of them feel Catalan. I teased one of my cousins recently about this. Christened Fernando, he opted to legally change his name to Ferran, the Catalan counterpart, several years ago. His mother, my grandfather’s youngest sister, was Cantabrian; her husband was from Galicia. Ferran, however, considered himself Catalan. I joked that for someone without a drop of Catalan blood running through his veins, he was a rather fervent advocate for independence from Spain. To which he replied, “Being Catalan is a sensation, an essence. You don’t have to be Catalan by blood to be Catalan in spirit.”

But where did that leave me? My Spanish identity was woven into the tapestry of Barcelona, by virtue of the fact that it was where my family was based. As much as I adored Barcelona, I didn’t feel the need to fracture my identity further into Spanish and Catalan, and I certainly didn’t want to have to choose sides. I was a rabid Barça fan who watched each Clàsico, rejoicing with each win and despairing with every loss, who would not date a Madridista ever, who lived through the euphoria of the 2010 World Cup, insanely proud that Blaugranes made up a significant part of La Furia Roja, the Spanish national team. But me, an independista?

Lo siento mucho, but I’m Spanish by blood and by spirit, and proud of it.

I am enamoured with archival research and verification through field work. I have walked the stony paths and touched the water where Moro warrior preachers, Shariff Kabunsuan and Sultan Kudarat, travelled. They likewise waded in the bubbling brook of Tubok, Lanao del Sur which is on the eastern shore of Illana Bay. The Spaniards named that Tubok entry Puerta de la Sabanilla. To listen to pronunciations of names such as Ayonan Diwata Ndaw Gibon, Lalawanin sa Silog, and Princess Aya Pagamay Bai from the Bantugan epic in the Alonto home in Marawi is learning about their forefathers. To touch the pillar of the first mosque in Simunul, Tawi-Tawi, constructed in late 1300, is a blessing. To visit my mentor, Datu Michael Mastura, in Maguindanao reminds me Mindanao is like Barangay Dalimbang, or a place beyond compare.

Travelling around Lake Lanao, I discovered its legend. On the place where it is now situated, there once flourished a mighty Sultanate called Mantapoli. At that time, the world was divided into two regions: Sebangan East and Sedpan West. The Sultanate of Mantapoli belonged to Sebangan, its power and population growing. The disequilibrium came to the attention of Archangel Diabarail or Gabriel to the Christians. Dibarail flew to the eighth heaven and told Allah: “My Lord, why have you permitted the imbalance of the earth?” To which, the Sedpan replied: “Go right away to the Seven-Regions-Beneath-the Earth and to the Seven-Regions-in-the-Sky and gather all the angels. I will cause a barahana [solar eclipse] and in the darkness let the angels remove Mantapoli and transfer her to the centre of the earth.”

Diabarail and his army of angels flew to the east. In the twinkle of an eye, the sun vanished. Darkness like black velvet shrouded the universe. The angels flew faster than arrows. They swooped down on Mantapoli, lifting it with great care and carried it—including its people, houses, crops, and animals—through the air. They brought it down at the centre of the earth, in accordance with the command of Allah. The very spot vacated by the Sultanate of Mantapoli became a huge basin of deep, blue water—today’s Lanao Lake.

I have a nipa house in Tawi-Tawi. For a time in Holy Week, that was my home with my three children. A speed boat with then-Governor Gerry Matba would bring us to Banaran in Sapa Sapa Municipality. How lucky to have landed on its wharf in time to chase after a procession. A suitor was formalising the hand of his fiancée in marriage, in a pre-wedding ceremony called the Paqua-Mamab. On our way to the girl’s house, four teenagers banged on their makeshift musical instruments—plastic containers that would otherwise hold their mother’s supply of rainwater. One container was transformed into a conga. Another became a guitar, strings attached to both ends, called tic-tac. A third had two pieces of wood tied beneath the container but jutting out so the musician could step on it and let go to produce a sound, “bang-bang.” Big and small oil tin cans all came together to the beat, believe it or not. The guitars and one harmonica were the only “sane” musical instruments. The boys played to the tune of “Baleleng,” heard so often in Bongao I think it was more popular than the Filipino national anthem.

Research and history acquaint me with the nature of a people, politics, state institutions and migrations, and social changes. All have guided me to understand people of different ethnic groups. My studies in Philippine history, ethnography, anthropology, national security, and public safety prepared me to listen to our country’s multi-ethnic constituencies with more understanding and insights into their differences and our shared commonalities.

I have numerous untold stories. When I reminisce about them, my heart swells with affection and gratitude to the Moros for keeping my spirits soaring high. But the years go by very fast, and there is more to learn and experience. So even if every memory continues to enrich my life, the pursuit for more discoveries and the belief that development here is attainable and sustainable keep me well-armed to defy ageing.

Volunteerism not only helps shape lives but encourages all to uphold the values of kindness, courage, and perseverance.

Volunteering is the simple act of giving something without any condition. Volunteerism is many things—paying it forward, giving back, and making a difference. It alters your perspective about people and gives you an insight into the lives of others. It allows you to give hope just when you think there is none. It encourages a desire to help make circumstances better.

At Hands on Manila, we are committed to finding creative ways for volunteers to be of service to others. Anyone can volunteer. Everyone can make a difference.

If you wish to display your artistic talents, you can help paint murals on the walls of a public school or teach arts and crafts in a center. Or hone your academic skills mentoring the youth in English and Math. Or train individuals to do livelihood activities and to become budding entrepreneurs. Or bring out the environmental warrior in you and help plant vegetable gardens in community centers. Or simply play basketball with teenage boys or read to the elderly in shelters. The possibilities in our monthly calendar of projects are endless, and more importantly, the time you commit to these can revolve around your schedule.

We recruit, educate, and mobilise our over 30,000-strong army of volunteers and volunteer leaders all over the country. We design volunteer programmes for our 100 partner non-governmental organisations (NGOs). We customise the volunteer experience to suit a company’s advocacies, internal objectives, and development goals. On average, we work with 75 corporations a year.

Volunteerism not only helps shape lives but encourages all to uphold the values of kindness, courage, and perseverance. Like the Filipino spirit of bayanihan, it inspires all to solve a problem or to work together to get a task done. It makes you a better person, a better professional. It re-directs the conversation to the positive, rather than the negative. It changes the conversation, and in doing so, it also changes the world.

(If you would like to volunteer, join our kindness revolution at handsonmanila.org.)

As the director and anchor of an investigative news format for a local TV network in Colombia, South America, I get the privilege of travelling to many neighbouring countries to produce stories. I don’t get to do a whole lot of sightseeing in those countries but when I do find an extra hour or extra day, I take full advantage.

Recently, I travelled to a country not far from Colombia. While there, I had a day off and decided to visit a small city several hours by bus from the hustle and bustle of the capital. When I got off the bus, I noticed that there was a bicycle rental kiosk in the corner. It was a sunny Sunday; seeing beautiful Valparaiso, Chile by bike seemed tantalising. So I rented one. 18 dollars a day on my credit card and the deal was done.

Right when I was about to ride off in my spanking new rented bike, I realised that the man at the kiosk had forgotten to give me a lock. So I went back.

“Would you be kind enough to lend me a lock?” I asked him.
“What for?” he responded.
“To keep my bike safe while I make pit stops. Someone might steal it,” I replied.
“Who will steal it?” he asked.

He looked genuinely puzzled. I started to wonder if this elderly man named Marcelo may have been either senile or was playing with my mind in some way. All I wanted was a simple lock and couldn’t understand why this was becoming such an issue. So I blurted out: “A thief! A thief might steal it!”

He smiled and looked at me reassuringly: “Aaah, thieves. We don’t have them here. Haven’t seen one in years.” I really did not know what to say, so he continued: “You go ahead and park it wherever you like. When you emerge from wherever you stop, you will find your bike where you left it. No one will touch it, I promise you.”

I mounted my bike, a bit wary since where I live in Colombia, bikes are stolen every minute. Right when I was about to peddle off, I turned around and threw one last question at him: “Sir, why won’t anyone steal my bike here?” He was already walking away but froze in his tracks, turned around, and walked towards me. He then looked me in the eye with a firm gaze and said: “Mi hijo, porque eso no es algo que debemos hacer [Son, because that is something we just should not do.]”

I gulped and finally rode off on my biked and enjoyed my day. Valparaiso is a quaint and rusting old port town where in the 18th and 19th centuries, way before the Panama Canal was built, European and American east coast-based ships bound for Asia (some for Manila) would resupply before making the huge leap across the vast Pacific.

But in the hours that followed, I could not stop thinking about what the bike man said. I shared my conversation with several locals, waiters, bus drivers, a teacher, a student, artists, bartenders―and no one seemed surprised.

“Here in Valparaiso, we respect other people’s property as we expect them to respect ours,” one said. “If someone doesn’t steal my bike, I owe it to him to not steal his,” another said.

As I listened to them I felt a mixture of admiration and frustration. Admiration for this guiding principle they shared. Frustration because I was reminded of how different most of us are in Colombia and in the Philippines.

“The law here is respected whether we like it or not,” said a sailor. “We respect our institutions whether we like them or not,” a bartender told me. I found out through the teacher that children were taught this principle at an early age. “They are taught principles and ethics at home and at school. You have to nurture the tree when it is still small; if not, when it grows it will topple over,” she said.

At the end of my day in Valparaiso, I came to one overriding conclusion. If a country’s citizens do not think only about their rights but also about their obligations and their duties, then everything else comes into place.

“I can’t only think of my welfare, I have to think about my neighbour’s also,” the cleaning lady in the bathroom of a seafood restaurant told me. If public servants everywhere thought this way, I thought, then corruption will be reduced. I later found out that this country was, indeed, the least corrupt in this hemisphere. Another reason people abide by their obligations and not only obsess about their rights is because when they don’t, the penal and social sanctions here are stiff. One is punished; one is pointed at.

As the sun set over the bay in Valparaiso, I returned the bicycle to Marcelo, the kiosk manager, I told him that I had apprehensively left the bike unchained outside at least seven places. “I am sure it was very much admired,” he chuckled.

It sure was, I thought, as I walked towards the bus station. It was certainly admired and, better yet, it wasn’t stolen.