Finding Home

The waves sounded like drum beats with sudden, angry movements of a woman's hand. Anger--one that has been kept in. Now it comes out in ragged gasps like buried sobs. Quiet then loud. Clapping one after another like dominoes on sand. "Ruin. Ruin is a gift. Ruin is the road to transformation." Elizabeth Gilbert's words resound in my head. There is no moon. Only stars. Millions of them shone against the curtain of black. The wind blows from the mountains. The colored flags, pale and shadowed in the night danced in the wind.  My bare feet dug into the soft, grainy sand, finding its respite. And while my body can find rest, my mind wanders with the question, "What will I learn this time?" Miss Ailyn tells me, "Gibutang man ko sa Ginoo diri." God put me here. Tears in her eyes, heart on her sleeve, she has done wonders for the community here. There is so much more to the story than what the national TV show, G diaries has show

The things we need to do to live, to stop from dying. Are these two one and the same? Or are they separate things? Call it existential crisis or some form of it. These questions run through my head these days. Necessary to live or to stop from dying. I sip my cup of black, sit on our front steps, listen to the numerous birds singing. The sun is already high. But from where I sit, cool air still surrounds me. An epiphany appears or more of a question really: "Was it because your soul was dying?" There is only silence. Many moons ago my Yoga teacher told me to listen to the beat of my heart and I could not hear it. Why couldn't I hear it? I asked myself, frustrated, scared that I didn't have the ability to. What does this mean? There is the work that I do. There is the good work I do. And then there is what I love to do, born to do. The things I need to do to live. And the things I need to do to stop my soul from dying.  Identity.  I am my fathe

We passed this place too many times in the past. A road sign planted at the corner where we turn right greets us every time we go to the mountains. Today we finally turned that right corner. The road is small but passable. We turn another right and we've arrived. We alight from our vehicle.  The air is cool. It is quiet. Water pouring from the clay pot fountain sounds.  We walk the tiled steps onto the veranda overlooking rich foliage, mountains and a river down below. The dining area is small, enclosed by glass windows floor to ceiling. We enter and homemade cheesecake greets us at the door,  Halo-halo too. We order lunch. I go outside again and explore the place. Numerous butterflies flit from one plant to the next. Fragrance in the air permeates from different herbs and spices. Citronella leaves are in a clay pot filled with water. Underneath, coals unlit rest. I walk gingerly, swaying this way and that,  careful not to disturb the green living things.    

"Ako po si Ronald, Surf Instructor 'nyo," he says. He holds out his hand.  He is slim in stature, around 5'3" tall. He has clean-cut hair and an easy, kind  smile. He is only 18  years old, a grade 12 student at the local high school. He lays the board on the sand and says, "Sir, Ma'am, 3 safety rules muna tayo, bago mag simula." (Let's know the three safety rules of surfing.) He proceeds to orient us with it in a clear, gentle but very firm voice. While he is laying out the rules, he looks at my husband. "Nakuha, Sir?" (Did you understand the rules?) He then turns to look at me.  "Ulitin ko Ma'am ha."(I'll repeat the rules.) He repeats the rules this time directing them  specifically to me. And then he looks at both of us and says, "Last time Sir and Ma'am ha. Para sigurado." (Just to make sure, I'll repeat it one last time.) Ronald reiterates the safety rules the third time. A good 15 minute

Fall, I see. What stories there must be behind this painting. With every brush stroke, with every crease of the brows, with every angle the arms guide the hands that make. With every breath taken as colors appear and shadows blend. The joy of seeing, the sorrow of parting. The taking and the giving away. The rising and the falling as leaves do and perhaps people too. And then the sharing and the telling. All in life is a letting go. But first an embracing too tightly knowing what must leave and what to keep. Artist: Rhyl Plaza , Ormoc City

How's your writing?" We were having lunch over at our house and he asks the question. Sir Billy's tone was one of genuine interest. I answer. We continue the conversation. Ma'am Gie marvels at my boys. "Garret's nose is getting handsomer. Morgan has grown bigger than the last time we saw him" We talk about many important things-- plans, dreams, friendship, the respective energies we bring to ou r days, to our relationships, birthday plans. And we laugh. My favorite part when we get together-- we laugh the deep-down- in the- belly kind of laughter. "Why haven't you written about the painting I gave you?" He had asked me the week after he gave me his watercolor painting. I did not have a straight answer at the time. I could not very well ask the Master Watercolorist, "How to write about something so precious? How to write something so valuable as the giving of one's heart or a piece of it at least?" I re

"Millions", I gush at the sight of them. I only know them to be blue, never lilac-colored. The husband says, "Never mind planting this at home. We will come back to the mountains again and again." Kuya Ramil laughs at this. Again, everybody knows I am no green thumb. We go back to their house where the guides are gathering. Newly cooked Balanghoy immersed in Latik is waiting on the wooden table that Kuya Ramil himself built. Kuya Loloy, our guide when we climbed Lake Janagdan in May, had harvested coconuts for us before we arrived. I ask, "Are these from one of the coconut trees that Kuya Loloy said marked the end our grueling descent from Lake Janagdan?" I was already cranky and irritable nearing the end of our climb at that time. Kuya Loloy had to tell me, "Relax lang Ma'am. Smile." And I responded with something that was the complete opposite of what he had suggested. We all laugh at the memory. Kuya Danny then t