Finding Home

The man stood tall and dignified at the rostrum. Microphone on his right hand, he spoke to us with a sense of honesty and intimacy that can only be described as if there were only five people in the room. As he said the last few lines, there was an unmistakable break in his voice, a holding in of air.  And as he gazed at us, his eyes glistened with emotion. Then applause broke. Inspiration . I tried to explain this concept to our 2nd Graders as I told them Christina Newhard's story of a girl named Amina who could not weave a story in her loom. She tried to find inspiration in the mountains and the sea but still could not find it. And so she went about in the city to find it. "What does inspiration mean?" the students asked me. The closest two words I could share with them that their 7-year-old minds could understand, were "imagination" and "dreams".  Slowly, we  somehow made a connection of how imagination and dreams allowed us to create some

Dear You, What have you been up to?  Getting up in the morning Breathing as I still can Water from the tap Coffee Bath, Dress, Make-up Work.  Storytelling, hands in the air Questions out of nowhere Thank you's I want to be like you's What's the next story? Can it be later and not next week? Quiet, calm Then lunch My son tells me, "Change." The younger one holding his cookie Time to rest Both of them cover me with kisses, holding my face Afternoon rain Thunder as well What have I been up to? Not much. Dear You, This is what you have been doing: Breathing while you can Telling stories Writing them too No matter they are mundane Do not forget It is the small, The everyday acts the simple ones that make everything great. Dear You, Dear you.

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