Finding Home

"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

"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

The man stood tall and dignified at the rostrum. Microphone on his right hand, he spoke to us with a sense of honesty and intimacy that can only be described as if there were only five people in the room. As he said the last few lines, there was an unmistakable break in his voice, a holding in of air.  And as he gazed at us, his eyes glistened with emotion. Then applause broke. Inspiration . I tried to explain this concept to our 2nd Graders as I told them Christina Newhard's story of a girl named Amina who could not weave a story in her loom. She tried to find inspiration in the mountains and the sea but still could not find it. And so she went about in the city to find it. "What does inspiration mean?" the students asked me. The closest two words I could share with them that their 7-year-old minds could understand, were "imagination" and "dreams".  Slowly, we  somehow made a connection of how imagination and dreams allowed us to create some

We passed this place too many times in the past. A road sign planted at the corner where we turn right greets us every time we go to the mountains. Today we finally turned that right corner. The road is small but passable. We turn another right and we've arrived. We alight from our vehicle.  The air is cool. It is quiet. Water pouring from the clay pot fountain sounds.  We walk the tiled steps onto the veranda overlooking rich foliage, mountains and a river down below. The dining area is small, enclosed by glass windows floor to ceiling. We enter and homemade cheesecake greets us at the door,  Halo-halo too. We order lunch. I go outside again and explore the place. Numerous butterflies flit from one plant to the next. Fragrance in the air permeates from different herbs and spices. Citronella leaves are in a clay pot filled with water. Underneath, coals unlit rest. I walk gingerly, swaying this way and that,  careful not to disturb the green living things.    

The many ways we travel," a writer friend once wrote to me. I notice how we greet each other with the words ending in "...on your journey,' when one is about t o embark in another phase of his or her life, the beginning salutations varying between "Good luck" to "Congratulations". We view life as a road to travel or a map of worlds to conquer. For the last 14 years that I have lived in this city, mainstream opportunities have been far and few between. Friends and family with all good intentions have often wondered whether, I, who was born and grew up in a bigger city will ever "survive" in a place where no malls exist, where common sources of entertainment were amiss. If there is one thing I ever learned over the years, it is that in my pursuit of happiness, I never once considered my "survival" to be hinged on what the bigger cities had to offer.  Instead, during that fateful time, my definition of joy was to be with th

"When one touches the earth, one feels more alive," she says. And then she goes to the kitchen and makes tea. She comes out minutes later carrying a tray. Baby pink roses, various leaves float inside the carafe.  We talk about many things. The mountain air. Corn coffee. Basking in the moonlight in the rocking chair at midnight. Talking to God, the Universe, the angels.  The cold that runs deep to the bones. Family. The intricacies of relationships of a parent to child.  Friends. How we need only few. Only the necessary. The expectations to act in a certain way in a culture where outward appearances are overvalued. And the blatant determination to remain true to oneself. We talked about food. How she loves growing and making it. How we would love to eat it soon. How she does not mind the tediousness of preparation and cooking. Tedious, in fact is not in her vocabulary. But passion is. So is joy. These two are inseparable it seems. We talk about Yolanda. How being s