On a weekday I was led to hear Mass at the chapel mall. I was attentive so unlike my behavior during the Sunday masses in the same chapel. I joined Emil at one of the front seats. Clearly my intent was to be truly present at Mass. I was taken aback when the young priest momentarily withheld communion from me while he gently muttered instructions. I had to quickly decipher what he wanted me to do. I didn’t want to delay the other communicants lining after me.

As I type this, I can’t remember whether the instructions of the priest were in English or in Pilipino. I remember distinctly that I said “Amen”. But he insisted that I say “Amen”. My rebellious and critical self wanted me to walk out on him. But I remembered I couldn’t scandalize the holy devotees attending Mass on a weekday. From observation and from my own practice in the 90s, daily Mass goers are the gatekeepers of the Faith!

Emil, I sensed, was also upset. Come to think of it. The priest was strict towards women; the woman before Emil was treated in the same manner as I was. Perhaps, I had gotten too used to receiving communion from the Eucharistic ministers on Sundays I failed to learn the changes in rituals if any.     Unexpectedly, in the evening, Julie Anne called our landline. Among the many topics covered was the communion episode. She countered with an item in the blog of a former student of mine who happened to be her friend thanks to the Sanrio craze of so many years back when Julie Anne was in the elementary school. In the blog, my former student commented about the difficulty of preparing her three sons for mass only to be treated with a lousy sermon and other unpleasant conditions.

Thus I question. Where is the communal worship? Where is the atmosphere of joyful thanksgiving? Or to say the least where does one find solace for the inner self when a Catholic like me goes to mass?

Emil and I processed the encounter as we walked to one of our favorite restaurants for lunch. Seated alone ,  at table for a moment while waiting for Emil a waiter approached me. He was not one of the regulars. While my Monkey Mind was still dwelling on the communion episode the waiter asked for my name. Stupidly, I automatically responded. When I realized what had happened I called an usherette who knew me as a frequent diner. I complained about the treatment by the waiter who made me feel violated.

“Why was he treating me as though I would have to go to the counter to claim my order?” Not even Jollibee or McDonald’s or Tapa King in Harrison Plaza would do such a thing. No decent sit in/dine in eatery had done that.

Then I knew what was happening. I was in a Buddhist disturbed state of mind; my mind was in a restlessness mode. It was as though I was simply waiting for an impending doom. On my fourth year of a serious and committed program of “Awakening” self-styled, I got the dregs of my old self challenging me to deal with my so-called entitlements a la Goldman. I suppressed my anger and resentment towards the priest who according to social conditioning must be respected. But when I wasn’t watching my mind, my demons made me exact retribution on a waiter.

When Emil learned about the episode, he went on a protective blitz. He wanted to dress down the waitress who first attended to me thinking she was the culprit. Emil was likewise reacting to old memories tied up to entitlement

I don’t have the temerity to claim my discomforts and frustrations are akin to what feminists writers encountered. I refer to the private struggles of women aspiring for self-esteem. I refer to the battle of braver women who came out into the open to advocate for a meaningful spiritual framework within their religions. The movement championed the rights of women who felt their religions failed to grant them inherent value. I can relate to these women in the sense that the private and the public search for meaning for and by women in the 90s was leading the women to depression, anxiety and eating disorders. Fortunately, I did not succumb to eating disorders in the 90s.

The morning after the Communion and the “waiter” episode, I woke up with body aches mostly on the shoulders and the neck. Very telling signs on the metaphysical level. Shoulders are the repository of burdens. The communion and the waiter episodes triggered my subconscious to send alarm signals to my body. The spiritual level and awareness are found in the throat, third eye and crown chakras. My conscious mind simply responded to the chemical and energy alert calls from my subconscious.

I automatically reached out for my muscular pain killer, a pill. I could have sought solace in a less invasive remedy by using my Horse Chestnut gel. My God! I realized something was wrong again. There goes my training. Another relapse but I have learned that this is not a linear program. I know I have reached another level in the spiral towards health, wealth and well-being. It’s just another beginning for me.