Finding Home

  The Soursop tree that my son Garret and I planted  two and a half years ago seems to be dying. Prinsesa's (the name I gave to it after what my parents gave me as a term of endearment) leaves have been turning yellow and dropping to the ground. In the midst of green, her brighter hues stand out. An autumn in a place of only rain and summer. We were elated a few months back that it bore fruit quite earlier compared to the others we planted years before. And then this happened, is happening--Life and its inevitable cycle. I sip my cup of morning black and head back inside. Meanwhile the sunbirds are singing their morning hymns.  As per brief research, it could mean the Soursop has been attacked by fungus or other elements. One article says it is its natural cycle to drop leaves in the cooler months only to rebirth again in spring. Again, I say to myself, but we have no winter here. Perhaps, it's not meant to be taken literally.  Our December is cooler than in the previous months

  Garret and I planted this Soursop tree in July of 2020. Everyday since I spoke to it as if it was a human being. I even named it Prinsesa. Each time I watered it, I spoke beautiful words to it for it to grow. "Ikaw ha, lami imong mga bunga. Gwapa kag bunga." "One year and six months later it bore 2 fruits. Unfortunately, the meat was inedible as it was hard as a rock. "Ahat" we call it in Bisaya. We even jokingly said, "Nagdali man gud ni ug pamunga nga dili pa iyang panahon." It  bore fruit prematurely. Two months later there appeared from its yellow felt-like blossom another bud, showing the beginnings of a possible fruit. This time we let it be and showed it no signs of anticipation. We simply allowed it to be itself. No admonitions. No teasing of some sort. Maybe we gave some nuanced remark citing what if this fruit in particular still wouldn't be edible.  Then one fine day sometime last month, it was ready to be harvested.  The fruit wa

Today I am immensely grateful for the chance to witness beauty beyond words in a world that is somehow bent on making everything unfathomably desperate. That the concert featuring a quartet who, without argument, were the very manifestations of the word 'maestro', was entitled "One Beautiful Night of Music" was certainly germane as everything that transpired, every note played, every stroke and pluck of the strings, every pounding and caressing of keys, every delicate infusion of air to create song was beauty embodied. What is Beauty really?  I define it to be this arresting sense that draws one's attention inward. Inward where the breath is all that exists. Inward where the body is unable to contain such magnanimity and translates it into joyful movement, dance, applause or in my case, tears. Tears that transform into language.  The violin held my heart. The violin that seemed to have a life beyond any incomprehensible reason that sang to the recesses of emotion

In Photo: Ground Zero Barangay Mailhi, Baybay City, Leyte Resilience is a word that is thrown so carelessly these days of surviving catastrophes, miniscule or large-scale. What we fail to see is that resilience, this ability to bounce back from a crisis, depends highly on the quality of mental, emotional and spiritual support we get from those that surround us be it family, friends, community. The particular kind of support as well cannot be just one dimensional. It needs to derive from a holistic perspective and dynamic. The whole person. The whole community. The collective consciousness. The reality we are faced with, however, tells us otherwise as we are so used to just "wing it", barrel through it, summon it. Whatever "it" is to get us through the crisis.   If we are truly to begin the authentic work of healing, transformation, evolution, there is a compelling need to understand that the much needed support to develop real resilience must come from a return to t

 I can now identify and name at least 9 bird species just flying around in the vicinity of our garden. Each time I see one, I cry out the name, cutting in conversations much to the annoyance of my partner or much to the fright of our long-time house help, but very much to my own delight. So I asked myself last night, "Why this delight? Why such pleasure?"  There is something to be said about naming. It somehow gives the object a concrete quality. Proof of life, if you will. In the practice of Mindfulness, there is an exercise where we are asked to name the particular emotion whether heavy or light, overriding the current state and then later on to name where it manifests in the body. To name something is to give a face to it, allowing one to finally, well, face it making the previously unnamed to be less fearsome, less cumbersome. Naming as well, allows for a deeper and greater appreciation of what transpires in the mind, body and heart.  Taken into the context of delight an

"Hokusai says look carefully. He says pay attention, notice. He says keep looking, stay curious. He says there is no end to seeing."      Yesterday morning a brown shrike perched on one of the branches of our Avocado tree, which was directly in my line of sight from my place at the breakfast table. The iron grills of our screened veranda perfectly framed the bird in diagonal parallel lines. It shivered and looked this way and that and pecked at its own body. And then it became completely still. I looked at the shrike for what seemed like quite a long time as it remained on that branch for what seemed like an eternity. The morning was quieter than usual and nothing else seemed to move nor make a sound. I could hear nothing save for the thumping of my heart and quickening and calming of my breath as I watched the movement and stillness of the bird.      I am inclined to believe that this is the same shrike that perches on our water tank staying longer than other birds, as if po