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