Finding Home

"The masculinity of the piano. The sensuality of the cello. The singular beauty of the flute. How these three created this one beautiful body of music that was not only soulful but created a kind of revolution in the heart..." It is a few days after the beautiful concert and still, the last remaining notes left by the virtuoso pianist, cellist and flutist linger in the spaces of my memory. What started out to be  simple invitation turned out to be something more. It became more of an experience that was meant to be felt by the entire body and mind in a time where music could simply be selected from an app and heard through a blue tooth speaker, where passion can be seemingly plastered on various social media sites with hashtags as long as what a carefully crafted caption could be. The word "witness" comes to mind. The word "presence", too. In a place only just beginning to rebirth the arts, these two are primordial as food and water. But take away thi

The sun is high. A warm breeze fills the air. Sparse tufts of clouds are spread throughout the sky.  It is going to be a beautiful day. I just know it. It is the day of the Hi Sandangaw, A Waray Tale storybook launch. As I alight our vehicle, green and silver balloons intertwined set in front of the glass door entrance complete with hanging vines creating a forest-like entry into the venue greet me along with lively chirpings of "Maupay na hapon!" from our Grade 11 student volunteers. As I enter, Hi Sandangaw stands alone on a wooden book stand beside an arrangement of flowers on the registration table. Amina, Melo and Kalipay are spread out as well. I step inside the room and am greeted by this expanse of white light emanating across the entire space. I would like to believe this is the light of good energy one great story brings. Banig is laid out on the floor complete with throw pillows and a bean bag. In the small stage are two potted bamboo plants on both ends. An anima

"Once upon a time..." our teacher would begin. Our school library had pink walls and a triangular floor space. My classmates and I with our little legs and feet would eagerly rush to the room because it was story time. It was my favorite part of the day. It was all our favorite part of the day.  Our teacher would then open a book filled with stories that took us to various wonderlands and worlds so magical we thought were real. During recess or dismissal time, I remember playing with my friends retelling stories and acting out the stories. It didn't matter whether it was about mermaids or fairies we saw from cartoons or the myths passed on from our uncles and aunts. What mattered only was that it enveloped us in this inexplicable and indescribable kind of joy so much so that we lost track of time.  It is astonishing to know how we circle back to what we truly love. Call it calling or ministry. Call it vocation or destiny. While my work with children in the

"Please don't let this feeling end It's everything I am Everything I want to be ..." Ma'am Gie belts out the first song she says she learned on guitar on the veranda of the place we were staying in. Her voice is effortlessly beautiful. Sir Billy, on the ukelele deftly strums, no truer artist at heart. Meanwhile my elder boy Garret who has autism and who loves music marches back and forth listening. Then he approaches Sir Billy and strums with him. He sits beside Ma'am Gie next. And he goes on like this for quite some time until the song ends. We talk for a while longer until Garret sits on my lap asking in his own way to rest for the night. The first night Morgan, my younger son who also has autism and the birthday boy whose birthday was the reason we checked in at our favorite beautiful place with a seafront view, would walk around the veranda and sit on Sir Billy's lap treating him as if he were his uncle or grandpa. And then moving on

Dear Chika-an, You sweet devil you. You finally came to the city of Beautiful People. Oh how my heart leapt when I saw your tarps a couple or so weeks ago announcing, "Opening Soon at SM Center".  So today the husband and I went and feasted on your dishes that I know by heart-- Pakbet with Chicharon, Bam-i Guisado, Filipino Style Fried Chicken, Ampalaya with Dilis and Cucumber Lemon Pitcher. Your service was impeccable. Our meal was served within 15 to 20 minutes as your no-nonsense waitress informed us. Each bite of every dish was an explosion of home. Ampalaya with Dilis as appetizer was such a treat. Dilis also called "Lansang" by Cebuanos due to its nail-like appearance was just enough saltiness to the tongue. I remember how it was a staple in our home while I was growing up. I especially like your Pinakbet which is my 2nd favorite from your menu. The sauce with a hint of spice that's just right made it such a pleasant experience to my palate. Each veg

Dear Chika-an in SM Center Ormoc, It is a week after our first meal with you and now we are back again. As whenever I go home to Cebu, I now also call you my comfort place. The clouds are looming outside promising the inevitable rain. And though the restaurant and all of the mall is cold with the airconditioning in full blast or so it seems, your atmosphere is warm with "Good Morning Ma'am-Sir's and smiles as bright as the service crews' yellow outfits. Miss Gayle, your manager, greets us and proceeds to seat us. She offers her apologies for last week's Chorizo absence. She tells us Chorizo de Cebu is definitely available as clearly as it is written on the menu. We thank her profusely and tell her we are ready to order. As with the first time, our food is served within the reliable 15  to 20 minutes. The husband and I as usual take in each bite with conversation. We are deep into our stories and even deeper into the tasty Chili Garlic Tuna Belly, the nat

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