Finding Home

Dear Mom, I remember you in the silence of my heart. Here where day is beginning. The boys are still in bed though I hear Morgan muttering. Garret hiding under all the pillows. Even as the neighbor's early morning workers have begun their woodwork grinding, sitting here in the room where you used to stay whenever you come visit brings me into that quiet. The memories then come one after another. I allow myself this precious time to be immersed in them no matter how painful. You playing catch and throw with 2 year old Garret in the terrace. You cradling 8 month old Morgan to burp him. You telling me as I was  trying to get the boys' meltdowns under control, also on the verge of my own meltdown, "Anak, ayaw palabi. Kalma lang." And then the memories  get to be too much.  "Ayaw palabi," your voice echoes here in the silence of my heart. Be kind to yourself, I constantly admonish others. Why is it always so hard to do it myself? "Ayaw palabi." I hear y

  “This is the part where you find out who you are.” This. Here Where everything hurts.  Where nothing makes sense. This. Here Where there is nothing left of your heart.  But others say there must be some  if not so much more left This. Here Where you are  But the one who birthed you, taught you love Is not This. Here Where you made your choice Where your choice made you  This. Here Where you are alone Where you are loved  This. Here Where there is no taking back Where there is only grace and mercy This. Here Where you can finally utter, I’m sorry Please forgive me Over and over and over This. Here Where everything hurts Where everything finally becomes clear This is the part where you find out who you are. 

Darkness.  Rain. Dampness. Cold. Alone.   One breath at a time, I say to myself.  Inhale. I don't know what to think of this year anymore. I can romanticize it by saying it has compelled me to release the things I no longer need.  I still need my mother.  Exhale.   However, it seems I don't have a say in the decision of these things.   Inhale.  There is nothing romantic about loss lying beside you at night, accompanying you in your sleep and waking you in the morning.  Exhale.   There is nothing romantic about it suddenly appearing in the most unexpected times of the day. When I just want to not bear the pain for even 5 seconds.  When doing the dishes reminds me of how my mother was the one who taught me how to do it the proper way. “Pile all the plates, spoons and forks, rinse them first with water to wash away food residue. Then get the sponge and rub dishwashing paste on it and soap them all. Rinse properly until when you run your forefinger across the plate, it makes a soun

"Uses of Yoga Attire: Panglaba ( Laundry), Pang-ilis ug Ponda (Replacing Sofa Covers) ug Uban Pa (Many More)..."      I jokingly post in my social media stories how I do house chores in a Yoga tank and pants. Some viewers get a kick out of it with the "haha" sign. Some press that thumbs up sign. Some don't care. All is good. Everybody moves on to the next person's story.  Joking aside, for these past few weeks my practice in Yoga and Meditation has been here, there and everywhere. Unfortunately, most of the times it is a combination of all three.  The hours are occupied with home chores-- laundry, dishes, changing sheets, changing curtains making the bed, sweeping floors, wiping windows, more chores and attending to my boys. Transitioning into this kind of normal since the home quarantine started has been a slow process in that I am still trying to find balance in establishing a personal time and housekeeping. Some days, I am able to follow a consistent

March 1, 2020 "Kinsa imong gibisita Mam?" the Grab driver asks. Whose grave did you visit? "Akong Papa." "Unsa na ka dugay?" "20 years." "Aw dugay naman diay." So it has been quite a while. He said it in a manner that somehow tells me it is no longer as painful as it must have been before.   The driver’s words stung. I wanted to him to take back his comment but remained silent as he proceeded to tell a story of how his own father had died many years ago as well. I responded politely and listened to him but my mind drifted elsewhere.   I wept at my father's grave. "I forgive you. I miss you.   I still see your face, still hear your voice." One continuous stream of thought flowed from the core of my being spilling out of my eyes.  I hear the Grab driver’s own storytelling as if from a distance. Meanwhile I am unhinged by the barrage of emotions. A song plays from the car’s radio," Mutya ka Bale

There is a window of quietude before my boys wake and I ease into the day relishing and digesting words of comfort from favorite authors accompanied with a warm cup of coffee. Bird calls ring into the air. A variety of birds have found home in our Avocado trees. As I read and sip, outside a vendor’s holler selling Lemonsito in a sing-song voice breaks through the silence. It sounds pleasant and brings a beautiful nostalgia of sorts taking me into a time in the past where one of the common ways to earn a living entailed a captivating song to attract the sale of whatever is intended to be sold. A few days ago the song was "Isdaaaa, lab-as!”   Today, it was, “Lemoooon, lemonsitoooo!" The first syllables a higher pitch than the second and a prolonged articulation on the last ones. These days framed by the COVID-19 pandemic can only be described as uncertain and unreal but bring with it “a harvest of presence”, as David Whyte describes beauty. A mindful attention to the ordi

"39 years of hair", I thought as the husband went through my scalp with the satisfyingly buzzing sound of the clipper with clumps of hair falling all over my body and onto the floor.  "I am letting go of all that." That which has been the quiet witness to everything and anything that has come to pass in my life-- Childhood. Favorite stories. Stories of becoming, unbecoming. Places of beautiful memories. First love. First broken heart. Many firsts. Seconds too and multiples of many more things unspeakable and worthy of praise. Everything is a myth until it is manifested in the body, my teacher Arianne said. We inherit karma, various spiritual traditions have reiterated.  This path to healing has many faces and countless detours. Surrender is a word that I am presently learning to live by. What happens when I acknowledge, be with and honor that which is manifested in the body? What happens when I allow karmic inheritance to pass through without resistance?