There is nothing quite like the idea of stepping out into the unknown. It could be argued that life is essentially an unknown entity. After all, the next moment is not in our control. Which reminds me of something that my husband just told me. We have a regular client whom we see in our store almost every day. He went out on a motorbike, drove too fast, didn't see the oncoming car and crashed into it. He didn't wear a helmet too. And it happened on All Souls Day yet. 

    As I was saying, there is nothing quite like the unknown. The guy who rode that motorbike probably didn't anticipate what will happen to him. That is not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about an anticipated adventure. I want to step into the unknown. That's a different matter altogether. So there is anticipation. I have read that there is much derived pleasure from anticipating an adventure. So we're talking of this kind of adventure--an anticipated one. Something that we've looked forward to. 

    The first anticipated adventure that I can recall is that of going to first day of elementary school. Oh the excitement, the fear and the trepidation! I liked the act of study--of sitting down in front of a table, paper in front of me and a pencil beside it. Yes, an unknown thing, but so excitingly wonderful to my little mind. Then I can squiggle something to that writing pad. Most of the time, it was just very simple drawings of flowers with five petals. Or a simple bungalow house. My masterpieces that deserved only to be erased or thrown out later on. But they were my first step towards trying out, exploring what I can do. Later on, I was taught the discipline and form that followed letter-writing. And I so loved it that I kept on practicing and practicing on my penmanship. Lots and lots of As and Bs and Cs. The repetitive nature of it wasn't too tiring for me, for I could feel I could become better if I practice hard enough. 

    Yes, learning how to write--my ABCs--was my first unknown. And that first adventure continues to be a wonderful and beautiful thing in my mind and heart. I have learned to write quite well with my hands even if I say so myself. I didn't realize it then but those times of following the instruction of teachers and my mother, of practicing and practicing resulted in a style of writing by hand that is particularly mine. Distinctive, different, unique. 

    Practicing my ABCs was a solitary adventure, more mental than anything perhaps. But going to school--now that's a different matter! That means facing other kids! It was a whole new adventure, ask any wriggling, crying child and you won't get a definite answer like a 'yes' or 'no.' More likely, you'll get a wail or a scream. That's how terrifying the prospect of going to school is. 

    I am sure I was not any different. I certainly didn't march off to class singing 'The hills are alive with the sound of music.' Not likely. I can only imagine that first day of school meant a lot of finger-biting or lip-tearing, clammy hands and cowed silence. Yeah, and my mother was the school head teacher too at that. 

   My learning how to squiggle on my own was an ongoing thing--way before school. That little step of courage, which gave me a taste of fear, surprise and the accompanying joy of discovery, helped me to try to face my fear of meeting new kids just so I will discover the joy of study. My knees quaked, my hands were clammy and my heart was beating fast, but I had overcome my first fear--I had learned to squiggle little stuff onto paper and I wanted to know what more I could do with it. So even with all my fear, I said yes to going to school.

    I was only six years old when I went to first grade, one year advanced but I guess my mother thought I was really interested in school for she enrolled me. My elementary school was a hill paved into a school, so the place sloped up. From the road you turn to a side road that leads to the school. On both sides of that little pathway are rice fields. Dry elevated land amid rice fields that could get wet and dry, depending on the season. Then you enter a little cemented archway, the entrance to our school, then a slow uphill walk straight to the classrooms. You'll see flowers and vegetable beds going up to the classroom. It was a very Filipino pastoral scene. 

    From our house, it would take us around 15 to 20 minutes to walk to school. Together with my mother, it wasn't as fearsome for after all, she took care of the school. She will take care of me. I took courage in that and was a bit more fearless because of it. Still, I knew I had to face new people. And that was scary.