Liv in a Life Well-Lived

Cooking had always been my Mom's thing. My Dad was into interior design -- he had an earthy, artsy, shabby chic taste even before shabby chic was a thing. My sister has her shoes and bags and shopping.  I read and I write. My Mom, she cooks. She cooks like a scientist. No not in the manner of having exactness down to pat. She was like a scientist who loved to invent new recipes. Sometimes she fails, but we all tease her good-naturedly. Not asking her to experiment was like asking Albert Einstein not to discover the theory of relativity. I wish I could say I had interest in cooking while growing up. I wish I could say I spent almost every Saturday and Sunday afternoon cooking and baking with my Mom. I didn't. I was a bookworm who would bite off anyone's head if they bothered me while reading. But I did poke out my head once in a while. It wasn't a big deal. Some days, I may have just finished reading a book, or Mom asked for help, or I was just plain bored

It had been 8 years since my parents were welcomed back by the Creator. About half of those years were the darkest season of my soul, but then afterwards, it alarmed me how fast things have changed. The heart is a sentimental creature; years from now, you can still evoke the same emotions of grief, happiness or regret. However, the mind still controls everything you remember, as well as what you ought to feel as you look back. It's so easy to forget the little things now. That's why I try to make a mental exercise out of it and force my brain to remember: the mornings I woke up to smells of Spam frying, the music of Roger Whittaker blaring from the downstairs stereo, the hum of conversation as my parents discuss the affairs for the day. How my mother smells after a bath, her soft skin as she tucks my hair behind my ear, the color of her eyeglasses which aims to hide her partially blind eye. How she would sit at the foyer, facing my bedroom door, while she prays the rosary we

3 1/2 years ago, i gave this story to someone who I pegged is the happily-ever-after type. I still believe. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Peter Pan gave Wendy a thimble.As thimbles go, this one was wet and sloppy. And yet of all thimbles, Wendy was sure, Peter’s was the best. “That’s a thimble?” Wendy asked. “What is it for?” Peter Pan smiled sheepishly as he hovered over her bed. “Oh, you know, something you give another person to tell them you like them.” “So you like me?” Peter sighed and settled on a duvet beside her. “I did give you the thimble, didn’t I?” “Well.” Wendy replied. She reached over to her bedstand and picked up her stitching. “Well.” She said again. She seemed to be lost for words. Her fingers clumsily worked the needle and thread. “Well?” Peter flitted up, inched his face closer to Wendy. “What are you thinking?” “Nothing.” She said, too quickly. Peter was visibly miffed. “Nothing? But that’s the best kind of th

Dear Sister, I couldn't get your question out of my head. You asked me, "What if I never find love?"  I remember having the same thought. Half of me dreaded it, the other half was steeling myself for it and saying, so what? Some ultra-feminists would say we are silly for even thinking we need to find a man. They confuse themselves with their liberal talk when all we mean is that, we want someone to share the love we have. And hell to it, but gifts are nice. period. But there is one thing that has kept hope afloat inside me all those years of waiting. By being very inquisitive, I have researched that in our mother's side, three generations of women (at the very least), found love one time, big time.  Our great grandmother fell in love with our great grandfather at first sight. Our grandmother only had eyes and heart for our grandfather to the point of running away with him at the age of 18. She was young when she found him, but they never left each other's

There's about ten minutes left of my most awesome year so far. I have to be very honest here, I feel like I made comparable leaps and bounds the last 12 months than the last 10 years. I actually felt myself stretch and get uncomfortable until I got used to it, and suddenly, I grew, noticeably, incrementally. I am feeling a bit sad leaving 31. I have a fear that I will never be able to top this year. But another side of me is also saying, no, this is where it starts. This is where you woke up, and this is you stretching your limbs. Yet far to go, Liv. I just want to be able to look back, 5 or 10 years from now and remind myself that for better or worse, I was alive the last night I was 31 years old. And I was also grateful and hopeful and I can feel my core stabilizing again. And to wrap up my year of awesome adventures, I listed a few accomplishments I want to remember. To remind myself I am not a sell-out. To affirm that though I still daydream, I am also living my life as

So I came upon a trend in etsy and amazon about ACEOs (see title) and ATCs. ACEOs and ATCs are artwork done in 2.5 x 3.5 inches of canvas/paper and was originally used as trading cards (much similar to baseball trading cards, but for artists). I figured I will try to make as many as I can, and it's fairly easy for me because I have that kind of short term attention span anyways. :D So here's some of my latest works. These can also be viewed on my other blog:  http://livbeeart.weebly.com/