Finding Home

  October 13, 2021 The sun came out today after days of relentless rain.   La Nina all throughout October, our weather bureau said. But of course, nature follows its own course. When the weather app says 100% chance of precipitation, the clouds decide to dissipate. So in these pockets of unexpected goodness, my feet are quick to rid of slippers and step onto still dewy grass, basking my body in delicious sunshine knowing it will not last for long. Nothing does, after all. Nothing ever does. Impermanence. Anitya in Sanskrit. Anicca in Pali. A lifelong practice consisting of many, many trials and errors. Ephemeral, fleeting, and transient are just few of words that shape this reality. My mother died last year. And even if after her stroke, my brother already prepared me for the worst, when it finally happened, her passing, it hit me like a tidal wave. I liken it to such because just like surfing, one is obviously well aware of how waves are ever present. Depending on the time of ye

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

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

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