“A month of Sundays”

My friend, Larry Ypil, was dreaming of two weeks of no writing. As soon as he said this, I recalled immediately John Updike’s “A Month of Sundays.” I read this novel ages ago. Much of the story is lost to me now but not the idea that it was all about identity and solitude. And I do not wonder. I know: Identity and solitude are what I need most right now.

There are always many things to write about, to comment on, in a way, to put another perspective to: Brexit, how our upcoming president has told his entire country to shut up after he practically traded away our interests in the West Philippine Seas, how so many seem to have silently taken this slap on the cheek of the entire nation by offering to him and China the other . . .

But honestly, what can one really say?

Shutting up does seem to make sense in a peculiar and rather ironic sort of way. After all, there is the ancient Chinese adage best remembered with a snicker: Give a fool enough rope and he will hang himself.

Better to talk about me and how I really need a bit of rest. After all, like you, I have the rest of the world to deal with on an ordinary day. And when does the world ever cooperate? And yet, the angel of my conscience goes: “Of course it does, Bai. Otherwise, how could you ever do the things you do and get things done?”

And then I reply, “Oh yes, I do have a lot of friends to work with.”

Life is, of course, the ennui of doing, of taking every necessary step forward into the future, one step after the other, one step at a time, one step painful, another not so, and just enough number of steps absolutely joyful and, in a way, victorious. And then the angel inside me goes: “Doesn’t that last step justify every painful step before it?”

But then I reply: “Oh sure. But look where that last step takes you.”

And indeed, as I look into my future, I see it: What the Beatles called “The long and winding road.” And my shoulders drop. Ha?

And then I am absolutely sure this road in front of me cannot be taken without surer steps, without regaining for myself that childish joy of knowing exactly where I want to go. Surer steps. Knowing where to go. And I look at myself: “Look at you. You’re talking to yourself!”

And so, yes! A month of Sundays makes perfect sense.