from my Bestfriend renelle: SIMPLICITY
March 4th, 2007 by la-rraineBy Bo Sanchez
My parents breathed simplicity. Oxygen too, but that’s pretty obvious. Dad
was an assistant vice president for a humongous company, yet I didn’t
"feel" like I was a rich man’s kid because my parents made it a rule to
live below their means.
A millionaire’ s son rode a sleek Benz; I rode our sixteen-year old Toyota
that sounded more like a drum and bugle band, with its cacophony of bangs,
rattles, and whams.
An heir of the moneyed class was chauffeured to school, but as early as
Grade III, I was taking the public jeepney– sitting, standing, or swinging
from its handrails like a flapping flag.
The wealthy dined on gourmet meals every day. But the culinary highlight
of my whole week was when Mom bought Coke for our Sunday lunch– the only
time we tasted the stuff. I’m not kidding.
Rich kids wore outfits from America , England , and Paris . I wore clothes
from Avenida, Escolta, and Pasay .
The mansions of the rich and famous are veritable furniture showcases,
complete with sixteen Egyptian jars from the Nephertiti era. I learned
that one of those monstrous flower vases was equal to the price of our
entire house. But naturally, we too, had our own flower vases. If my
archeological knowledge serves me right, they came from the Nescafe era.
Their estates have playrooms with life-size Barbie’s and Power Rangers.
But the way I played with expensive toys was admiring them from the store
shelf and using my imagination to the hilt. That way, I owned all the toys in
the world.
You’ll be shocked by what I’m going to tell you, but through all this, I
recall never feeling deprived in any way.
Let me tell you why.
I remember my father coming home every night and we’d go jogging
together–around our old car parked in the garage. (Dad says he wasn’t
vying for the Olympics anyway.) Then I’d sit on his lap and we’d talk about
how to solve the problems of the universe.
After dinner, we’d read the comic pages together. Tarzan was my favorite,
until I reached puberty. From then on, it became Jane.
Almost every Saturday afternoon, it was father and son time. We’d walk to
the shopping center and Dad would buy me a hotdog. Then we’d walk back
home, bringing a little something for Mom, usually a chocolate bar. To add
sentimental value to our token, I forced myself to take a few bites from
it.
I guess being with Dad and Mom was all that my little boy’s heart ever
wanted. And I got it, every single day.
I believe that God chose to write the "map of happiness" on the ordinary
parchment of simplicity– like a treasure map written on recycled brown
paper.
Consequently, many people ignore that map, and are attracted instead to the
more glossy, loud, shiny maps around. But when they follow these others
maps, they end up tired as a dog chasing its own tail.
I have a radical suggestion.. ……Simplify.
Simplify because you want to discover the depths of your soul.
Simplify because you want to start living deliberately.
Simplify because you want to love from an uncluttered heart.
Remember that simplicity is only the first step of the journey. Holding the
treasure map, memorizing it, photocopying it a thousand times, and keeping
it safe in a vault won’t make you claim the gold. You actually need to
sail through oceans, climb peaks, cross valleys, and explore caves.
Simplicity will point to you where and what and who the gold is in your
life.
Once you know your gold, the game has just begun.
Will you treasure your gold?
My parents knew their gold:
1. Each other,
2. Their six children, and
3. Their faith.
They tried to live uncluttered lives so that they could have time for what
was most important.
They didn’t busy themselves buying a bigger house, because that would mean
working harder to pay the monthly amortization, doing overtime work or
taking a second job. Who would then go jogging with little Bo every night?
Who would read Tarzan for him?
They didn’t burden themselves buying a BMW because that would mean laboring and worrying about installment bills. Besides, walking to the shopping center every Saturday afternoon with his son gave my dad his needed exercise, and made little Bo feel special.
One of the delights of my heart was seeing Dad and Mom in their bedroom at
night, after our nightly family prayer. The lights were turned off, and
I’d see the silhouette of my father seated on his old chair and mom
standing behind him, gently massaging his shoulders. I’d hear them talk
about what transpired during the day. Even as a child, I sensed their
quiet pleasure at being together.
My question today: Could they have done this rich ritual each night and
nourished their marriage if they had been busy paying for designer outfits
for themselves or their kids, or if they had been worrying about monthly
bills for new hi-tech appliances?
I don’t think so.
And I’ve made the choice: I don’t want that kind of life either.
