Personal Truth

Fiction. Its purpose is to find personal truth. The process of writing itself is an attempt to find truth that expresses human experience, which is always amorphous and changing. -Amy Tan

 

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A Truly Sped-tacular Day

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   I was recently invited by the Institute of Human Kinetics (IHK), Visayas State University in Baybay City Leyte to share a message of inspiration to parents, teachers and learners with special education needs. This invitation was part of the program of their annual Sped-tacular Day Camp that consisted of adaptive physical, arts and music activities for the students at Baybay Central 1 Special Education Division. Each year, 2nd year university students enrolled in Bachelor of Physical Education and Bachelor of Culture, Arts and Theater create these adaptive and inclusive activities as part of their final requirement in one of their subjects, SPED 117 Foundation of Special and Inclusive Education.      Upon learning of the back story of this annual tradition, how one of the instructors of IHK, who also happened to be the Vice President of Student Affairs initiated this activity since 2008, I was awed and felt a familiar fire in my insides reminding me of th...
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Breathe, Grief

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My mother She kept everything: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows,  Old handbags,  cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace And here I was vacating, creating space One by one, garbage bags piled up "You need space to breathe," I told her She nodded, wordless, unmoving Her limbs weakened by the stroke she suffered just a week ago Her eyes watered in quiet protest Nine years later,  And four years since she passed I understand now This longing to keep things To hold objects, to grasp  As it reaffirms one's life,  that one became real that one truly lived Now I want to take it all back, the things I discarded to  make space for her  to supposedly breathe: Notes handwritten on various paper pads Broken cups, worn-out pillows,  Old handbags,  cracked plates Love letters, greeting cards Curtains made of lace I want to cram the space with everything she kept Leave no space for air So, I can...
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The Gift of Grief

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As I was doing laundry this afternoon, I caught a glimpse of Garret swinging on the hammock while listening to his music on his portable Bluetooth speaker pressed and Morgan playing happily with his water hose. They're teenagers who have autism. Unlike other neurotypical teenagers who probably are with their friends on a weekend doing whatever it is that teenagers do nowadays, this is what they do. A friend told me recently how somehow them having autism was like never having to lose our babies. As they will always be in a way child-like forever. In a way this is a blessing. In another, it is a kind of grieving, one that churns my insides every now and then as thoughts of what might have been invade my day. I grieve that they could never have a life of their own, meet the love of their life, start a family, make memories and so forth. I grieve that I will never have grandchildren. A few years ago, I wrote about this briefly and said that I don't know what it means. Now, I have ...
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