Finding Home

Our teacher leads us into the three cycles representing the full moon and lunar eclipse. It is a dance, one fluid sequence with seemingly no beginning and no end. And in the middle I am brought to a place where I am 8 years old in a ballet studio. It is my first ballet class. My father is there and stays through the entire class. I walk up to him right after and ask him how I was. He says, "Gusto kaayo ka ug naay mutudlo nimo." "You seem to want the teacher to always guide you,"he says in halting Bisaya and English. At the time I understood it to be that I wasn't a born dancer like the others who could very well flex their bodies on their own. But he said it in a way that was gentle, kind and compassionate, the only way he knew how to be with me. Even as I recall the memory now, I am brought to a kind of sensation of falling on a pillow to cushion from gravity, from the otherwise glaring reality. As our teacher leads us further into the sequence, I find mys

Dear Amanda,        In so many ways you have become an important part of my life. From our similar interests in spoken word poetry, to our ukulele playing, to books and stories that change our individual universes to our heart to heart conversations about life. I’ve learned so much from you more than you’ll ever know. I marvel at your wit and insight. I am in awe of your quickness to learn anything you set your sights on. But one thing that I am so honored to have witnessed is the strength of your spirit as you face opposing forces that challenge your belief head on. It is not just your brows that furrow. It is not just the adamant tone of your voice. It is your indignation that compels me to bring out my own against any injustice that may have just occurred. That my dear girl is passion. That my dear Amanda is the one thing that you hold on to when everything around you seems to be falling apart. The strength to fight for your beliefs and often times, your life. This letter

As a child I would look forward to Library hour. Because it meant that I would have another chance to go into a universe of wonder, imagination and exploration where there were no grades to be worried about and no anxieties whether I had to stand in class to participate. In the library, there was only me, my book positioned perfectly on a book stand, the words spread out before me weaving stories of dragons, castles, adventures and mysteries. Of course the 1 hour that was always too short. The love of reading has led me to be creative in so many ways. It certainly has led me to a path of storytelling in written and spoken mediums through the various roles I play in my own life—mother, wife, teacher, guidance counselor, mentor, writer.  But most importantly, I remember all too well how reading had been my place of refuge in the stress of childhood and adolescence that I certainly had no control over. Reading became my saving grace. It is where I first learned compassion, first knew of

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