Flying Kites and Living Dreams

Source: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GIRISH_KUMAR/message/32040 

I woke up one day and saw through my window, two little kites flying and heard the shrill voices of kids urging the kites to go higher.

Suddenly, I remembered the good old days when my playmates and I would race to the fields flying our kites made of plastic bags and sewing thread. We flew our kites to grab the chance of the sun shining and the wind blowing at their best in summer. Amidst the trickling sweat and bleeding cuts in our fingers from making the kites and holding the thread for a long time until boredom got to us, we didn't get tired because it was fun.

As we go grew up, we left most of the things we cherished when we were still kids. We set our treasured toys aside, sometimes hid them in our own chests. But we always fly our kites throughout our lives. However, from being simple and homemade, we accumulated other people's ideas on how to make them less wobbly and less shabby so that we may fly them with pride.

So we replaced the plastic sheets and the bamboo sticks we picked out from trash with sturdier and more colorful materials. With these, our kites became stronger against the wind and casted an array of colors against the rays of the sun but they also became heavier for us to fly.

Like kites, the simple dreams that our young minds had passionately imagined turned into bigger aspirations and greater ambitions. Just like the children I heard across the street, we kept on releasing and tugging its string, urging it to soar higher and higher. While looking at it as it pushes its way towards the sky, we kept on hoping that the strong wind will not cut its string or that the hovering clouds wouldn't bring rain. We became anxious and scared with what will happen if we were not strong enough to hold on to the string or if we were not skillful enough to gear the kite upward. We are always eager to please and oftentimes afraid to disappoint.


Above all, most of us failed to realize the reasons why we fly our kites in the first place when we were still simple-minded kids:

• to be rebels without a cause by sneaking out of the house and running as fast as we could with that smirk plastered on our faces because we broke the rules
• to meet with our friends and gang up on our frenemies
• to bask in the warm glow of the sun
• to smell the fresh and dewy scent of the grass
• to breathe in the summer scent of the blowing wind
• to hear the chirping of the birds perching on the branches of trees nearby
• to gamely bet on whose kite will come down first and last
• to run after the last kite cut by the strong wind
• to name the shapes clouds make
• to laugh at silly jokes

Therefore, we flew our kites for the simple reason of having pure and clean fun; to experience the simple joy of life.

We never really mind about the wind breaking our kites; we can always make new ones. If our kite came down, we can always just run after them and with luck, climb a fruit tree to retrieve a kite stuck on its branches. Now, we always hesitate to make mistakes; thinking one wrong move will bring all that we had planned for to complete disaster. In the end, we missed the chance of learning and bettering ourselves by picking up the broken pieces and move on. We think that it is our mistakes that will define us and not the effort of giving all our best on what we do. 

If it rained, the better so we can strip down to our underwear and chase each other across the wide open spaces; creating puddles of mud along our way. When the rain let down, we giggled at the croaks of the frogs and mocked each other's mud-stained faces. Now that we have grown up, we get afraid of getting wet and dirty because we think more of what other people will say about us. We lost ourselves by fitting-in instead of showing our personalities. We tend to walk on tightrope and losing out on what it feels like to do whatever we want to do with our endless capabilities. 

If ever we got sick, mom or dad can always just cook arroz caldo for us, tuck us in the comfort of our beds and tend to us until we get well. Now that we can take care of ourselves, we are terrified of getting sick, not because of our health but because we can't afford to lose a day at work. We don't stop and listen to our bodies yearning for rest and relaxation from our constant urge to drive ourselves more and more everyday to fulfill our seemingly unsatisfied ambitions. Worse, we forget how it is to be taken care of by others because we are busy minding our own individual lives. 

We fly our kites not because we have to nor do we live our dreams because it is what is expected of us. 

We make our kites based on what we can and not on what it should look like to others.


We should live our dreams according to what we want and not on what others want us to pursue. 

Because at the end of the day, it is us who will mend the blisters and cuts, wring our rain-soaked clothes dry, and wash our dirty faces. It is us who will wear our best smile, put on our utmost charm, prepare our ears for the endless nagging and harden our bodies to cope with the punishments that have been planned out for us when we get home. Most of all, it is us who will learn to wipe our tears dry, put ourselves to sleep and dream once more of summer skies so that we may fly our kites again.

Dreaming of Toto

The first rays of the sun crept inside the room and the dewy cold early morning air brushed my exposed feet. I grabbed for my blanket and turned into a fetal position to fight the cold. I tried to recall why I woke up and nothing came into my mind. Somehow it could be the barking of the dog outside or it could be whispers of the neighbour’s help as they ready for their day of household chores. But what really got my attention was the fact that I woke up with no memories of a dream. I didn’t dream at all.

When I was a kid, I used to dream a lot. There were good dreams like flying among the clouds and nothing can be sweeter than that.

And then there were those dreaded, heartbreaking dreams. They can make you feel depressed for a long time with the thought that it could happen.

There was this dream that up until now, I still think about and in no way would I want to dream again. It was hazy but I heard the singing of the choir and the soft cries of people. I was drawn by the sadness of the atmosphere that I suddenly felt cold and afraid. I unwillingly turned and then I saw it.

Surrounded by an array of flowers and people was a coffin. Suddenly, I was more than afraid. I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks and the heat rushing in my veins; making my heart beat furiously. Inside the coffin, I saw my brother Christopher lying peacefully with a trace of smile on his face. Nothing in his expression relieved what I felt. He was dead!

Blood rushed to my head as I forced myself to wake up. For some reason, I didn’t cry. I can still feel the loud thumping of my heart but I calmed myself knowing it can’t be true. Even though my brother smokes and drinks, he's fit and is never sick. It couldn't be true. It was just a dream and I could forget about it.

Yes, it wasn't true. It didn't come true because I dreamed about the wrong brother.

On October 27, 2004, my older brother Raymund or Toto as we fondly called him was shot dead at his lower back and his chest by people who only wanted his wallet, his motorbike and his necklace with the Holy Cross pendant. And if there was enough time, they would have taken his newly-bought sneakers, too.

Two cold bullets were carelessly triggered to kill my angel of a brother. Toto had lived his life battling asthma and being a good and reliable son and a sweet endearing brother to his siblings. He found his passion in music, strumming the guitar and playing the organ. He grew up being Mamang and Papang's favorite not because he was the sickly child but because he had a pure heart.

In fact, he tried his luck of becoming a priest but for some reason, he gave it up. Instead, he found himself inspiring people by teaching philosophy to college students, sharing his love of music and of God and setting a good example for us, his younger siblings in valuing hard work and touching other people's lives.

When the news reached us that day from our dormitory in college, my sister Kristine and I held each other crying. It was painful to lost someone you love dearly but it was more excruciating when someone else took his life and left him writhing in agony and crying for help. 

I still remembered the day when I first set foot in the chapel. It was deja vu; the array of flowers, the soft cries of the people, and the white coffin. The coldness of the air made me hesitate to look inside the box but I had to. I needed to know if I wasn't dreaming. And there he was  lying peacefully as if he was just sleeping. Tears flowed and suddenly I heard myself sobbing like a child wishing hopelessly that it was an empty coffin. I wished it was just a dream. I wished it didn’t come true.

But we can never turn back the time and we could go on hurting. I still am and maybe that's the reason why my mind still resists having dreams and makes me wake up empty every morning. I missed dreaming but to tell the truth, I’d rather wake up empty than dream of my brother in that cold coffin again. I longed to dream of Toto again but not in a coffin. I longed to see his smile on his sun-burnt face. I longed to feel the warmth of his brotherly love. I longed to hear his voice. I longed to see, hear and feel him alive.

I’ll come by, someday and hopefully I’ll wake up one morning with a smile on my face and just let go, just let go.

Toto, watch over us from heaven; we know you already are.