nippled:

me

lemme go back to my knitting. (buti na lang marunong ako from grade 6 HELE.)

(Source: floresenelatico, via laughterequalsmedicine)

spiritualinspiration:

 What Are You Thinking? by Joyce Meyer Have you ever thought that nothing good is going to happen to you? Maybe you’ve even said something like “If I don’t expect anything good to happen, I won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t.”These thoughts are obstacles in your mind, and simply recognizing them will pave the way to your freedom. As Christians, we need to learn to fight for our thoughts, because our minds don’t automatically come into agreement with God’s plans.
I can look back at it and remember thinking, I’m probably never going to be in worldwide ministry—I probably just made that up because I wanted it to happen. It probably wasn’t God’s will at all. This was my obstacle, and it was a lie all the time. I had encountered so many disappointments in my life that I was afraid to believe anything good might happen. And when I really began to study the Word and to trust God to restore me, I realized my negativism had to go.

spiritualinspiration:


What Are You Thinking?
by Joyce Meyer

Have you ever thought that nothing good is going to happen to you? Maybe you’ve even said something like “If I don’t expect anything good to happen, I won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t.”These thoughts are obstacles in your mind, and simply recognizing them will pave the way to your freedom. As Christians, we need to learn to fight for our thoughts, because our minds don’t automatically come into agreement with God’s plans.

I can look back at it and remember thinking, I’m probably never going to be in worldwide ministry—I probably just made that up because I wanted it to happen. It probably wasn’t God’s will at all. This was my obstacle, and it was a lie all the time. I had encountered so many disappointments in my life that I was afraid to believe anything good might happen. And when I really began to study the Word and to trust God to restore me, I realized my negativism had to go.

(via spiritualinspiration)

last reblog for the day. if there’s one thing i discovered in recent years, it’s that it takes more than regular lunch dates to get to know people and keep friendships. i know though that however I may lack as a friend, Jesus overcompensates.

last reblog for the day. 

if there’s one thing i discovered in recent years, it’s that it takes more than regular lunch dates to get to know people and keep friendships. i know though that however I may lack as a friend, Jesus overcompensates.

(Source: spiritualinspiration, via spiritualinspiration)

teachingliteracy:

payamebahary:

Madeline Silcock

planets in a jar! cool!

(via booklover)

Never confuse a single failure for a final defeat.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via hexaneandheels)

gotta love FSF. 

(Source: fuckyeahfitzgerald, via hexaneandheels)

If someone is being unkind or petty or jealous or distant or weird, you don’t have to take it in. You don’t have to turn it into a big psychodrama about your worth. That behavior so often is not even about you. It’s about the person who’s being unkind or petty or jealous or distant or weird. If this were summed up on a bumper sticker it would say: Don’t own other people’s crap. The world would be a better place if we all did that.

Cheryl Strayed (via kyliecarefree)

years back (as in blogdrive-back), i wrote about being an emotional velcro. the littlest things annoyed me and the bigger things took so much of my time and energy. (that blog was aptly named star22, stariray, starcomplex, and several other variations of a being a point of focus. hah. #facepalm) now, and it probably just makes me come off more as an unfeeling b… witch, i let things be. i let people be. there is liberty that comes with it, and a stronger sense of ownership for my thoughts and actions. 

(via everythinglovely)

spiritualinspiration:

https://www.facebook.com/naeemcallaway

when 24 hours in a day are not enough, i must remind myself that God holds eternity in His hands. i can only do so much; He misses nothing.and those hands that cradle alpha to omega? i am safely nestled in them too. what is there to worry about?

spiritualinspiration:

https://www.facebook.com/naeemcallaway

when 24 hours in a day are not enough, i must remind myself that God holds eternity in His hands. i can only do so much; He misses nothing.

and those hands that cradle alpha to omega? i am safely nestled in them too. what is there to worry about?

(via spiritualinspiration)

that blog post has been stewing in my drafts section for almost a year now. i hope i find the strength to revisit that experience, those five months that changed my life, and finally let it go. (Elsa?) oddly/thankfully, and it must be a form of self-preservation too, the memories that stand out are the good ones.for now, i’ll let Shakira Sison oh-so-eloquently describe the multi-layered “buhay Amerika”.—-TO YOU, FUTURE AMERIKANOShakira Sison
You there holding that US Visa application or looking for US job prospects online. You with the fervent St Jude prayers and the long shot dreams, I feel you.
I feel you because I’ve been there with my throat feeling like I swallowed 15 polvorons before my visa interview. In the cold US embassy in Manila, there was a woman who was sobbing after being rejected a visa to see her dying father, and an old man presenting lot titles to prove his wealth so he could see his great grandchild.
With my armpits soaked in sweat from nervousness but cold from the wintry AC, I sat behind my fellow interviewees because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself as belonging to their red denial bracket — 20s, single, college degree. At that moment, I couldn’t risk being denied.
I was fearful of the consular officers, especially the infamous Asian woman who was reportedly trigger-happy with the denial stamp (she already denied me a visa a few years back). They sat there expressionless behind thick glass, spending the day deliberating our fates.
Who gave them so much power, I wondered, mostly in my bitterness about being evaluated based on a few documents over just a minute of their time. How dare this country block my entry when I was pretty much an American child?
Like you, I was raised on Sesame Street, Nickelodeon, and every other imaginable American television show. English was not a second language, but a status symbol. “You’re so American” was a compliment, and it was necessary to be familiar with every “stateside” salt-sprayed, yellow snack food and overly sweet high-fructose corn syrup candy bar.
Everyone and their mother had a relative who sent home an occasional Balikbayan Box filled with goodies that were a glimpse of the shiny newness of America.
Belonging
Because of these factors, I thought I’d belong. I didn’t doubt my English, I practiced it with an American accent once during a trip to Disneyland. I thought Manila made me snappy, resourceful, and worldly — I was perfect for the country I was going to make my new home.
I didn’t even want to go. Like you, I loved my country and vowed not to be one of those overly ambitious people who deserted the homeland. But also like you, for money, family, or in my case — love, I was called to make the move to the other side.
The fates conspired and I got an approved visa stamp. I bought my ticket and flew towards my fate and the rest of my life.
They paint it so colorfully, this life abroad. I caught glimpses of it in my cousins’ yearly school photos, Christmas studio shots, and pictures of uncles’ and aunts’ new homes and cars.
When I saw something I liked in a magazine, my mother would tell me to write my Ninang a letter and ask for it, and I did: Chuck Taylors, Boss guitar pedals, Avocet bike computers, a paisley Pop Swatch watch.
I had no concept of the cost of living in the US (just the exchange rate), not that it mattered. To me, like to many Pinoys, America was a place where everyone bought what they wanted willy-nilly. It was a place that was far from the constraints of my developing country. America was where want could always equal have.
You see, our overseas relatives don’t burden their loved ones with their difficulties. They don’t mention the thousands of dollars in annual spending for immigration lawyer fees (just to be able to stay), or the dead-end limitations of the TNT (undocumented) life.
They don’t mention the stress of working so hard for the possible eventuality of being sent home. They don’t talk about the lonely silence of being away from loved ones, the ache for the tropics and the home-cooked meals, or even their slightest difficulty in their adopted tongue.
Making it
For one, it was embarrassing to admit that after 18 years of school with English as the medium of instruction, and 26 years of American television, my new immigrant self often stared obliviously at the person I was talking to, unable to decipher the garbled New England, Southern, or California accent.
The rhythm of American English is different from our melodic one. They don’t teach you this in school (although maybe they do now in Manila’s call centers, where they teach you how to speak Ameri-cuhnnn). I learned, the way I did for many things, that I had to step away from The Pinoy Way, to even come close to assimilating into American life.
But these things aren’t reported home to those left behind. One does not hear about the shared 4-person room your Auntie stays in because she became a nanny instead of a business manager like she was in Manila.
You don’t regale them with stories of your life as a janitor in a hospital when you topped your Philippines nursing class. You don’t talk about the constant fear of not making it, of failing your family, of not being able to send money home. You never talk about hardly being able to live the hammered-on, painted-in idea you have of the American Dream.
Instead you buy stuff you don’t really need. You spend too much time at the mall looking at things you think your family would love, picturing a dress on your daughter, and a Lakers hat for your dad.
You work too much for usually less than you’d hoped, skimping on yourself to send more back home. Or you fall into debt because someone got sick, or you got a little carried away with shopping, or on that new car, or a house that you couldn’t really afford.
Or you make it. You land a great job that pays the bills, with more than enough to go around. You meet the love of your life, marry and have baby Americans. You get your papers, you sponsor your family, and they all come to join you in the States.
You watch your dollar, put money away, and appreciate a society where you can live on what you earn, and where your children can be free to make up their own minds. Either way, no matter how much you blend in now and how little you left behind, there is still someone left behind.
So you always send pictures, always happy ones, because nobody needs to know that it’s not as picturesque as it sounds. Without you, lives and homes are being built in the homeland.
Children are being schooled and are growing so fast. You see it everyday on Skype — the world that goes on without you but is sometimes funded by you, by your toiling in the secret silence of being in another land. That’s when you realize that this is the less than perfect version of what we’ve often called “a better life.”

So yeah, you — the one reading this on a laptop in a quiet room while waiting for your noisy family to go online. I feel you. And I want to give you a hug. – Rappler.com

that blog post has been stewing in my drafts section for almost a year now. i hope i find the strength to revisit that experience, those five months that changed my life, and finally let it go. (Elsa?) oddly/thankfully, and it must be a form of self-preservation too, the memories that stand out are the good ones.

for now, i’ll let Shakira Sison oh-so-eloquently describe the multi-layered “buhay Amerika”.
—-

TO YOU, FUTURE AMERIKANO
Shakira Sison

You there holding that US Visa application or looking for US job prospects online. You with the fervent St Jude prayers and the long shot dreams, I feel you.

I feel you because I’ve been there with my throat feeling like I swallowed 15 polvorons before my visa interview. In the cold US embassy in Manila, there was a woman who was sobbing after being rejected a visa to see her dying father, and an old man presenting lot titles to prove his wealth so he could see his great grandchild.

With my armpits soaked in sweat from nervousness but cold from the wintry AC, I sat behind my fellow interviewees because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself as belonging to their red denial bracket — 20s, single, college degree. At that moment, I couldn’t risk being denied.

I was fearful of the consular officers, especially the infamous Asian woman who was reportedly trigger-happy with the denial stamp (she already denied me a visa a few years back). They sat there expressionless behind thick glass, spending the day deliberating our fates.

Who gave them so much power, I wondered, mostly in my bitterness about being evaluated based on a few documents over just a minute of their time. How dare this country block my entry when I was pretty much an American child?

Like you, I was raised on Sesame Street, Nickelodeon, and every other imaginable American television show. English was not a second language, but a status symbol. “You’re so American” was a compliment, and it was necessary to be familiar with every “stateside” salt-sprayed, yellow snack food and overly sweet high-fructose corn syrup candy bar.

Everyone and their mother had a relative who sent home an occasional Balikbayan Box filled with goodies that were a glimpse of the shiny newness of America.

Belonging

Because of these factors, I thought I’d belong. I didn’t doubt my English, I practiced it with an American accent once during a trip to Disneyland. I thought Manila made me snappy, resourceful, and worldly — I was perfect for the country I was going to make my new home.

I didn’t even want to go. Like you, I loved my country and vowed not to be one of those overly ambitious people who deserted the homeland. But also like you, for money, family, or in my case — love, I was called to make the move to the other side.

The fates conspired and I got an approved visa stamp. I bought my ticket and flew towards my fate and the rest of my life.

They paint it so colorfully, this life abroad. I caught glimpses of it in my cousins’ yearly school photos, Christmas studio shots, and pictures of uncles’ and aunts’ new homes and cars.

When I saw something I liked in a magazine, my mother would tell me to write my Ninang a letter and ask for it, and I did: Chuck Taylors, Boss guitar pedals, Avocet bike computers, a paisley Pop Swatch watch.

I had no concept of the cost of living in the US (just the exchange rate), not that it mattered. To me, like to many Pinoys, America was a place where everyone bought what they wanted willy-nilly. It was a place that was far from the constraints of my developing country. America was where want could always equal have.

You see, our overseas relatives don’t burden their loved ones with their difficulties. They don’t mention the thousands of dollars in annual spending for immigration lawyer fees (just to be able to stay), or the dead-end limitations of the TNT (undocumented) life.

They don’t mention the stress of working so hard for the possible eventuality of being sent home. They don’t talk about the lonely silence of being away from loved ones, the ache for the tropics and the home-cooked meals, or even their slightest difficulty in their adopted tongue.

Making it

For one, it was embarrassing to admit that after 18 years of school with English as the medium of instruction, and 26 years of American television, my new immigrant self often stared obliviously at the person I was talking to, unable to decipher the garbled New England, Southern, or California accent.

The rhythm of American English is different from our melodic one. They don’t teach you this in school (although maybe they do now in Manila’s call centers, where they teach you how to speak Ameri-cuhnnn). I learned, the way I did for many things, that I had to step away from The Pinoy Way, to even come close to assimilating into American life.

But these things aren’t reported home to those left behind. One does not hear about the shared 4-person room your Auntie stays in because she became a nanny instead of a business manager like she was in Manila.

You don’t regale them with stories of your life as a janitor in a hospital when you topped your Philippines nursing class. You don’t talk about the constant fear of not making it, of failing your family, of not being able to send money home. You never talk about hardly being able to live the hammered-on, painted-in idea you have of the American Dream.

Instead you buy stuff you don’t really need. You spend too much time at the mall looking at things you think your family would love, picturing a dress on your daughter, and a Lakers hat for your dad.

You work too much for usually less than you’d hoped, skimping on yourself to send more back home. Or you fall into debt because someone got sick, or you got a little carried away with shopping, or on that new car, or a house that you couldn’t really afford.

Or you make it. You land a great job that pays the bills, with more than enough to go around. You meet the love of your life, marry and have baby Americans. You get your papers, you sponsor your family, and they all come to join you in the States.

You watch your dollar, put money away, and appreciate a society where you can live on what you earn, and where your children can be free to make up their own minds. Either way, no matter how much you blend in now and how little you left behind, there is still someone left behind.

So you always send pictures, always happy ones, because nobody needs to know that it’s not as picturesque as it sounds. Without you, lives and homes are being built in the homeland.

Children are being schooled and are growing so fast. You see it everyday on Skype — the world that goes on without you but is sometimes funded by you, by your toiling in the secret silence of being in another land. That’s when you realize that this is the less than perfect version of what we’ve often called “a better life.”

So yeah, you — the one reading this on a laptop in a quiet room while waiting for your noisy family to go online. I feel you. And I want to give you a hug. – Rappler.com

NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY