Finding Home

Sun in  kitchen Casts shadows and lines Door knob glistens Drawers open Floor tiles glare Biscuit boxes are timid on the shelf Bare feet patter about Hands do what they are supposed to do Pour coffee,  hold mug towards  lips to sip Take out fruit, slice Pour oats on bowl Place wooden scoop  then feed  And in the garden, Birds sing a welcome song-- "Morning has arrived."

Love sits quietly watches over Love sees Love breathes Love is not in the grandiose, no. Love is in the simple, nameless acts of Everyday things.

I am born from many mothers. As I was reflecting on the events that transpired in the past two days this particular thought emerged. The story of my life is perhaps the same as most others-- one of manifesting the changing of the seasons though I live in a place of eternal sunshine. In the glare of this reality, I find myself constantly navigating my way through the loneliness of the dark months, the transmutation of my many selves preparing the demise of their hues, the breaking free from the constricted buds of my beliefs and my adamant disrobing of this cloak of precarious blossoming into the parching of my own mind, body and heart.   Through it all, I meet people who support me in the many ways my seasons change. Some are the fierce catalysts of change. Some are the gentle nurturers of my soul. Most are both. And I see all of them as "mothers' in that whether fierce or gentle, they birth a new version of myself every time my heart and mind is open enough to meet them

Shuffle of feet Rustle of leaves Swaying palm trees Dance of tongues Strum of guitar Songs sung off-key but borne from the heart Light rain, gentle sound Sand, grass, ground The Pacific-- silent then loud Walk, wade, swim, dive Meet her majestic crest Hold your breath Paddle, paddle Then rise, glide and fly. Sabang Daguitan Surf Camp Dulag, Leyte

Dear Garret,  On Mother's Day 2007, you were still 2 years old then. It was a quiet day. A lonely one too if I recall correctly. I remember thinking that as a Mother's day gift to myself, I would buy you a set of bible stories. So I would have a chance to teach you some beautiful lessons. Of course at that time, there was already a nagging of sorts in my heart as to why you weren't responding like I expected you to or were supposed to. Your eye contact was fleeting and you didn't like to be touched, just to name a few. But I still continued to read you stories hoping that by simply forign on I can break through your walls.  Now the rest of this story is history. The years have come and gone. Doctors, teachers and therapists have blessed our life. Now some days you say to me, "Sto-wee." In the early hours of the morning or as we retire to bed at night, you hold my face and look at me with a gaze no longer fleeting but with a sustained look I can

Dear Grade 11, I will tell you a secret. In each of those sessions I spent with you I did not exactly plan on what I would share to you. All the words that came out of my mouth came out as water does from a spring. Like one discovers happily in the search of that elusive liquid after hours of trekking through a forest or desert, if you will. Every time I enter the room the energy from your bodies and minds are ever-changing. Ever fluid. Ever flowing. And if there is anything I have ever learned from the will of the Universe, it is to allow myself to be drawn to the strength of the current. Each of you is a force to be reckoned with. Each of you are beautiful in your own way. Each of you brilliant in your own spirit. And as I listened and embraced your energy, the words flowed.  My deepest intention was to let you see what you already have inside of you-- the ability to be awakened to your truest nature that can only illuminate all your darkest corners. I do not know ho

"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