“Mics, you look really happy.”
And then it dawned on me. I really am happy. I’ve never been this happy. It’s like waking up to a perfect streak of sunlight every single day, and feeling like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. No Ma, I’m not taking drugs. To put it simply, I guess I am in love with life.
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| My happy moodboard |
Whoever said that happiness is not given out in a silver platter is not kidding. Mine came with a lot of battle scars, literally and metaphorically. The upper part of my left thigh would always remind me of our white water surf session in ABCD Beach, Calicoan Island – strong current, Odyssey waves ready to eat you up from behind, getting out of the lineup after a ride, walking to the other end where you paddled out and doing it all over again. My left leg would always bring back that memory of my first paddle out to Point – new board, first ride, broken leash, some rescuing needed, just my kind of surf session, really. A scar on my right elbow would always remind me of that very first time I was taught how to skate. It reminds me of losing control, being a little too reckless, and ultimately, the feeling of flight. But all those instances, with blood on my legs and arms, I distinctly remember going back and trying again. Because happiness is a process, not a state. It is a constant cycle of trying-failing-winging it-failing-trying again. Because choosing to be happy means putting yourself out there, stripping yourself of your biggest fears and breathing in everything that experience has to offer. 99% of the time, you won’t get out unscathed. If you leave in exactly the same condition as you arrive, then you didn’t give enough. Yes, we’re still talking about scars. ;)
Whoever said that happiness is not given out in a silver platter must have had a lot of arguments with his/her parents. Because I’ve had. Disclaimer: I love my parents. I love them more than sunset surf sessions, Thurskate nights, Is This It and blueberry cheesecake combined. And I understand that when they tell me not to go surfing or skating, they are just worried that:
1. I might die.
2. I might get injured and die.
3. I might get scarred.
4. I might get skin cancer.
5. I might get in a road accident.
6. My heart condition will go back and I will go through the whole medication again and I might die.
7. I might die. Basically.
I love you Ma and Pa, but I cannot and will not stop surfing and skating anytime soon. Nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, has made me feel THIS alive. I will not get tired of explaining this to you until you come around to it. Don’t worry. I will always put on sunblock and try my best not to die out there. Don’t worry. I’ll never be that cool stereotypical surfer/skater chick you see in movies. I’ll always be your bunso who cuddles up to you when you sleep.
Whoever said that happiness is not given out in a silver platter must have been perpetually beat. I know I am. Travelling a total of 12 hours on weekends to surf and making it to Manila just in time for the Monday grind seems ridiculous to a lot of people. I would go out at night (around 10 pm) to skate or to meet up with friends and my housemates would ask me, “don’t you have work tomorrow?” And I would say yes with a big smile on my face. Tired would be a gross understatement. But given a choice between exhaustion and boredom, I’d go for the first one in a heartbeat.
So ask yourself. A perpetually tiring, oftentimes difficult, deliberate quest for happiness, or a let-life-pass-you-by stand still? The second one is a whole lot easier, but no thanks. I'd rather sleep with a worn out body and a free soul.
To happiness,
Miccah
