There’s this scene that comes to mind whenever I begin trying to elaborate how I’ve felt for the past few days.
Years ago I went out with some friends (ladies and gents) on Valentine’s Day. I forgot what we were thinking - we watched a Regine Velasquez concert. A fellow in a seat near our row caught our attention. He was a tall, lanky chinito, crisply dressed, his hair generously gelled and neatly combed. He carried a bouquet of roses, with a big pink card. He had “reserved” the seat next to him, defending it valiantly from teens and matrons alike. We assumed he was waiting for his date.
Minutes piled up into hours. He never wavered from his vigil, fighting his long and tragic retreat until the very end. She never showed up. Just as the concert ended, he folded the big pink card and put it in his pocket. He removed the bouquet’s paper wrap and unbundled all the roses and (there must have been a dozen of them) started giving them out to random people, my friends included.
God, it very nearly broke my heart.
There is a word in Sanskrit, a central concept in Buddhism, karuna - the capacity to transform pain and suffering to joy. I guess that’s the word for what I saw. The unwanted things in ones life can be a source of compassion. Even your pain is part of your treasure.
I don’t think she’s showing up. So I guess I’m giving away my roses now. Every one of them, for all.
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