AFTER two and a half months, it's finally out there. I can discuss it openly. That's my moving on, that is.
All my adult life, I have been a full-time journalist. That person who only has five holidays in a year -- Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Day, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday -- and one day-off a week, which when I became the editor-in-chief in 2003 was often borrowed and rarely paid.
I'm entitled to what we call mandatory leaves, but these too were often forfeited because major work has to be done or someone else has an emergency.
Being fit of body, and I'm praying I stay fit until my last breath, I've only been sick enough to be hospitalized once in my whole career, and have never been sick enough to stay home.
That one time in the hospital was after months of having to do the job of a fellow editor who has been sick for months. He has passed on hence, God bless his soul. So, you can imagine how many people I had to double up for through the three decades of being a journalist.
But it has always been fun. I get to explore, my work was a never-ending adventure. Until the digital newsroom forced me to stay put inside my office, unable to do what I have always been doing -- exploring, climbing mountains, visiting tribal villages, painting, drawing, diving, writing -- and instead push from behind while hunched in front of the computer or stuck with the mobile in hand, keeping track of analytics and how stories for the digital platforms are being drawn.
The stuff that made everything easy despite the endless days and no weekends, no holiday’s kind of work was no longer within reach. It was time to take stock of what I really wanted to do, and what I really wanted to do was write and paint.
It was time to write and paint. It was time to jump off and soar.
Bottom line: Never make your life be about positions. We climb up the highest peak to gawk at the view. We climb up the tall tower to zip down for that adrenaline rush. Even the bungee jumper, which I will never be, has to be on a high bridge or crane, to plummet down.
The ultimate fun is never because you reached the launching pad. The ultimate fun happens when you jump off from where you climbed up to.
The lesson? Rise up, climb up, as high as you can but only to reach a vantage point to see the world as you haven't seen it before, and then soar, or pack up, trek down, and go home as all mountaineers do. No one has ever said he wants to live on the peak of Mt. Everest.
The underlying lesson here is that you cannot soar if you haven't climbed the tallest launching pad. And this height is not a literal one. It's one built from one's name, integrity, reputation, and person. It's your launching pad. It's who you have made yourself to be.
That's where many lose their focus and end up bitter and sad as age creeps up on them; resentful of the young ones who have more stamina and enthusiasm and ability to adapt and adopt.
The position becomes a turf that has to be protected and in so doing, the young talents are suppressed if not chased away. The scrooge rules and the whole environment shrivels in resentment, in disgust, of the talents that are fresh and willing to take on the world.
How many young ones have been crushed that way? I can only wonder. Me, I am going where my bliss is and letting the young ones take over to explore and make mistakes as I have been made to explore and make mistakes and grew from there. This is an open invitation to find yours as well. I'm just an email away.
saestremera@gmail.com