Finding Home

Come to the temple of your longing This place of honoring will embrace you Even as it will break your heart This place of grace and forgiving will give you back your anger That for so long you have denied This place of gentle confrontation will compel you to sit with your darkness, meet every ache with tenderness This place of delicate annihilation will unravel your layers revealing your truth no shame or apology, only what is This place of revelation will ground you This is who you are, Right here, right now This place of all there is Of palm trees and fallen leaves In the eternity of wind and waves Soar here, float here, land here Come into this place of need, Of seeking then finding Come into this now open body Into the now expansive mind, into the temple of your now resolute heart. Durga Temple November 22, 2019 I am grateful for all my teachers at Lotus Shores. Every stay has been healing. Every time I heal a bit more. Each time I become

I turn 39 in a month and yet I still remember very clearly the day my classmates and I knew for sure we were going to graduate from high school. Our senior year was nothing short of challenging, rigorous and heartbreaking. But that is a whole other story.   Presently at 38, my youngest son Morgan, who is 11, is bigger than me. Garret now sleeps in his own bed. Although time is of a different form in our life, there are poignant points of contact between the "normal" world and ours. As my boys and I walk around our school for their daily exercise, the comings and goings of our students their age are accompanied by wistful thoughts that I’ve come to embrace. “Garret would have been Grade 8 now. Morgan in 5 th grade.” I find myself going back and forth in time. During these moments of poignancy, questions come one after another. "Where am I in all this?" "Who am I?" "What is my purpose in this life?" My meditation practice certainly

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

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

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