Once, it has been a decade

You are 19, Jennifer Lawrence is bagging her awards from the Oscars, you were discovering Bon Iver and music that sounds like him, e-books are easily downloadable, Tumblr and Pinterest became your virtual world. You are one year into writing on your blogger site, a half-decade late from when the pioneers began. The world looks terribly calm and generous. It is not huge and yet it is not small. It is deep and it is not condemning. You hunger for saltwater every now and then, you cannot always go when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with you. Here in this world, no one knows you. Fiction is your best friend. The world unfolds and you are taking it a laugh at a time, one day at a time. 

The real world is extending its hands towards you, but it cannot touch you yet. Not yet. But it is so close. You cannot see it yet. Not yet. But soon, its form will confront you. 

How did you dream then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the scent of the winds? You thought it would last forever. You thought that you were getting the best out of life because you were in the middle, halfway through everything. You were not at the beginning, you were not yet at your destination. For some reason, it was the best weather you were under. 

How did you talk then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the way words were woven into your heart? You thought it was the maximum. You were glad, but you feared that there's nothing to grow anymore. You had this assumption that you were living the best life yet because everything seemed so colorful, everything seemed perfectly created for your heart. No one knew it then, but you were satisfied. You thought that it was enough. 

Fiction was your best friend. That should have been enough. But the real world was extending its hands towards you. 

No one would be able to stop it. No one was able to stop it. No one stopped it. 

-

You are almost 29, Asians are bagging awards from the Oscars, you are discovering children's music, files are easily downloadable, your responsibilities are your world. You are one year away from your next transitions in your career, a half-decade late from whoever went ahead. The world looks terribly... terribly. It is huge and yet it is small. It is high and it is scary. You hunger for slumber every now and then, you cannot always do it when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with us. 

Here in this world, someone may know you. Fiction is an old friend. The world unfolds and you are running with it two seconds at a time, two days at a time. 

Fiction is extending its hands towards you, but you cannot touch it yet. 

How do you dream now? How do you talk now?

Beginning Anew

Today, a day that is non-incidental to any of significance, I claim that a new year begins. 

via

It is not that I would like to veer away from the beauty of the recent days that have passed. In contrary, I have found multiple opportunities to rejoice and consider greatness, for miracles have unfolded before my very eyes. It is just that I desire to fully embrace this season and make fruitful out of it. It is in great excitement and gratitude that this new year begins, so that I could treat it with a renewed mind and renewed ways of approaching it. 

For what does the newness entail, but that of replacement of things past and of seizing things present? It is that of each phase the moon undergoes. It is that of each path the strong winds walk. 

What belongs to the new then? Wouldn't it be filled with new hopes accompanied by new plans? That instead of waking up at 7:00 in the morning, I vow to start my day at 5:00, before the sun rises. In this hour, I would praise the Creator with waking roosters and chirping birds. To which He would respond with light that pierces through the glasses of my home. 

That instead of browsing through my electronics in every space between (and more times, within) activities, I would resolve to thoughtfulness and to listening. That I would not consume images and stories that are unnecessary. This reminds me of when C. S. Lewis told Walter Hooper that not reading newspapers is "how I keep myself unspotted from the world." It is not that I would embrace ignorance, but that I would limit the spaces for irrelevances, so that I could contain more of what is profound to me. 

Oh, and that instead of exchanging the fruits of my labor for momentary bliss sold by pleasurable packaging and words, I would store them for things that would last. 

What else in this newness do I want to exercise? Would I be able to follow my timetables as written? That I would learn to keep my vows to myself, so that my body and mind wouldn't scream at me for rejecting my own intentionality. 

That my thoughts that are to be formed may not be stifled by my laziness and complacency, always thinking that tomorrow may be a better day for me to do this and that. With that, here I say that I make a new oath to use this platform to release reveries (fiction or reality) twice in every week. 

My, my. Just thinking about these and just imagining how life would be, I get the discomfort that comes from starting anew. It is the fear that I would not be able to do as I said I would. But then, what makes me up but every substance that is human? With this, I know that growth would take a day at a time. With such wisdom comes grace to myself for her weaknesses and grace to time for its speed. 

As I write now, I am getting more minutes behind my schedule. Allow me to ink this with expectation that I will do well and that the beauty that comes out of my resolve would glow ever bright through me. 

The Acacia Tree

I was still a child when I found out that trees do sleep. It might not have been a quarter of my age now yet when it happened, but I still remember how the leaves were resting downward. And it was this very acacia tree that I first recognized to be asleep.

It was a late summer afternoon. The skies must have been changing its hues already, there might have been purples, oranges, and blues in the skies. I asked an elder a question that I cannot recall at present. I fumble upon my memory and I must have been asking if I could still play with the trees at the hour. And her answer was that "kasi natutulog na sila."

"Natutulog po ang mga puno?"

She agreed and taught me how to recognize how it looked like. I looked up to this acacia tree and saw its leaves gently folded and clasped together. I wandered around the front yard to validate the statement. To my amazement, I realized that indeed, the trees do sleep! Since then, I enjoyed looking around recognizing sleeping trees. And it has always felt like an open secret few people talk about. The acacia tree showed this to me first.

The tree that taught me of their nocturnal occupation has grown in its own years and has eventually been cut down a month ago. Elders in my family thought it wiser to let it go for now. I remember how I was able to hug this acacia tree last December, when I have fully embraced that I am no longer a child. It pained me to see it go I asked them if it was really necessary, but they deemed it so. As my mother sent me pictures of my cut down beloved acacia tree, I felt a pang that I feel towards childhood: gratitude and regret.

Just like that, the acacia tree was. Similar to so many other things in my life that have gone and passed. These are things I cannot go after anymore. And yet I move to ponder upon it with joy and I realize that even so, they leave me with attachments and treasures that I will never be able to bury to the forgotten past.

They may go, but the things they imparted to me will never leave. And even if the first tree that I saw to be asleep have gone, I know for sure that trees do sleep and I will know it forever as it is embedded in my memory and my recognition. Just like all the other people, seasons, and things that I have lost and who have left me with memoirs to keep.

I could write more about this, but I only allowed myself to write about it in the same time it would take for my water in the kettle to boil. If I don't do that, I might talk more about these pleasurable things and more and might never be able to stop because to remember is such a beautiful painful activity to get lost into. 

The Faerie Realm

This morning, I got around to reminiscing my favorite indie folk artists
back when I was still in college. This got me back to thinking and
inspired me to envision my youth as one spent in the faerie realm. 

I once lived in a faerie realm. It was not that my daily occupations were all spent there, but it was that my heart and reveries were solely rested on that place, the home of a lining of my being.

There were different days to visit the lands, but it was when the rains were softly humming and the breeze was cold when the portals to the faerie realm would open wide and visible. On other days, when sunshine is about, the realm's gates are slightly ajar, accommodating only those who have dire need of it. 

How did it look like? How would I describe it, ah, but there is no much difference to what one would expect... There would be a strong mossy scent as one enters, especially when the rains have just poured. The greens almost covered the surfaces. But it wasn't just the greens, there were purples, blues, and yellows. And the reds are all on the corners--on the surfacing roots of trees, by the river banks, or by scattered rocks that are big enough for a seat--careful to not outshine the shy colors. The birds were writing sonnets and there were all sorts of tales to be heard. 

There are homes, too! But they are unlike the ones that we know. It would be difficult to describe them, lest one would sketch the outlines of these cabin-like, tree-like constructions. They were not humble, like what one would think would belong to the woodlands. They were majestic, pleasurable, and can house great parties and gatherings. None of these houses in the neighborhood resembled each other, but none of them overshadowed any other, as well. 

When a weary soul enters, a little dwarf would take his or her hand, leading the soul to the calm waters as a welcome gesture. Once he or she had a taste of the fresh waters, the colors around him or her would come to life. It would all be Beautiful. It would all be a beginning of a story. And surely, there will be renewal to that poor one's being. 

There are more stories to tell, but The Faerie Realm is such a treasure, one you would like to talk about and describe and yet, you would still long to keep discreet lying within your heart. 

I haven't visited in a while, but there were hums that knocked on my tired heart's doors. I then smelled the mossy scent that means the gates are near. Maybe I would like to be immersed for a moment, for a few minutes, for the time being. 

Love and then, love again..

It is fatal to get mad at a flower who dies in its season, even after the gardener has poured essential care to it. The gardener loved the flower in the way love is, even after knowing that it might not live long.

- 

The other day, I realized that love cannot be wasted. It was my aunt who told me that once you decide on anything out of genuine love, it cannot be wrong. If you, then, love in the way that love invites you to, that love, in all its pain and endings, was not and will never be wasted.

Love is subjected to one's own definition, but when I think of it as I write it here, I think of the sacrificial form of it- the one that operates without reciprocation, believes unfailingly, and forgives endlessly. Such is the love that our Father invites us to serve, in the same way that He so loves us. We were vouched for salvation without any ticket we could buy to it, aside from His love.

I reflect on this and the depths of it. It is still difficult to fathom when it is easier to be all on one's own, expecting nothing from anyone, wanting no thing from any other. But there is this beauty to giving relentlessly, setting aside fears and insecurities because your soul so fits another and all the others around you in the way that creates a synchrony in the chaos.

So then, even when it becomes hard and it breaks you, water that flower and cherish it well, celebrate it all ways, and do it again tomorrow and the rest of days.

moonlight -

moonlight -

where the shadows of grief

and the songs of peace

dance in eloquence

 

moonlight -

where the memories are buried

and the future is built

under the skies' influence

 

 

moonlight -

where the tales of fears

and the drafts of hopes

are trapped in a cadence 

 

. . .

 

Anything that didn't have life cannot die, 

Anything that wasn't first conceived cannot disappear

Everything that has life is vulnerable to death,

But not everything that lives dies

Everything that exists may fade, 

But there are things that have years and lifetimes to last, 

While others spend seconds or minutes at most

If anything that has life may die, 

Are the things that have died capable of living again? 

If anything may disappear, 

Are there those that may possibly be still found? 

Are the paths we walk linear? 

Or there are roads that go in rounds? 

For every story that has ended, 

Can beginnings be opened anew? 

For every mark and period that had been slated, 

Can a tale still continue? 

If there is such discovery in our courses, 

Where mishaps and fails become glories

Then, the hopes in our gaps

Are miracles that wait to be known

- Sarakit

bye, 2020

here we are parting, to our wits' ends

as usual, as had been with the other years

with you, I've learned a different meaning to every rhyme,

have conquered more battles and have shifted dynamically 

the photos I have gathered were not more on the seas and the mountains

but are more of the people, the smiles and their tears, the longings and our desires

this year, I rediscovered childlike faith,

to believe even when my hands cannot do anything

to listen to the song there is when waiting--

because it is wonderful in its aches, truths, and surprises

my adventures were not in stretches and lengths, not on the roads

but were in depths, in insights, in learning, all within

a reroute to the self, to unravel each of my whys

and to make decisions in the present, to reflect my hopes for the future

to have resided inside also meant

I have written (and hidden) more words

and have read and acquainted myself with more books

than I've had in the last half-decade

in all that there is, I have realized gratitude

a new tune to it, a new form of it

that it doesn't rely on the circumstance

and it always, always rests on perspective

everyday, faith, hope, and love--

I realized, if breathed in and out makes one the most beautiful

that it makes the eyes see, the ears hear, and the heart feel

the greatest miracles ever told- that ever happened /even/ in the darkest of times

"Until..."

There are many beautiful words I know of, words that calm me, compel me, or affirm me. But there's this word that, in different times, has engaged me into different emotions- relief, impatience, excitement, joy-it is the word until. 

Until has been attached with deadlines and anticipations. As I think of it, I remember the diverse ways it has been used, but right now, what I remember most when I hear this word are endurance, grace, and hope. 

In the atrocity of existence, I have resolved to live my life carefully surrendered to what my Master invites me to do, and it's constant obedience. It isn't easy and it brings me to places I most fear or most know nothing about, but here is where the word "until" reminds me of endurance. "Stay put until...", "Stand on until...", " Be still until..." Until... Until... 

God knows there's nothing easy in all that there is in life. The lives we lead call us to the uncomfortable, but there's an end to it and we could press on and find joy in endurance until... 

His grace is enough in the time of obedience and endurance. It calls me to things that are humanly impossible for me, but then, the word until also reminds me that there's grace that would constantly fill me in when troubles seem to sway me. Grace makes dancing the best sway that the storm could bring me to, grace makes existence livable for me, grace fills me in when I cannot do anything other than trust Him. 

And all these grace and endurance shall be completed when I see the word that follows the word until, and that is the hope we the faithful shall look forward to- until He comes back to conquer the world. The beauty that rests in this promise has been constantly shaping our hearts to be firm in following the path of righteousness. 

I have seen and done different impossible things in this short life I have lived. God has brought me into things that are beyond comfortable for me, and in this young life, even after all this time, He still calls me to endure by His grace until I see the completion of my hopes. And this, my dear ones, is what should keep us in this race of love and life, until He comes back to find us faithful.

Kilala Kita

Tila nagdilim ang kulay ng kalangitan

Dating bughaw ay naging maruming puti

Tumanaw ako sa kung ano'ng nasa taas

Ikaw ba ay nariyan pa

Tinawag Mo ang aking ngalan

Hinawakan ang aking kamay

Isa-isang hakbang, ako'y Iyong inaakay

"Kilala kita," bulong ng Iyong puso sa akin

"Tunay nga ba?" batid kong nakatingin

Ipinakita Mo sa akin ang kalangitan

Na nagbago na ng anyo

"Nakikita mo ba 'yan?" Iyong tanong

"Hindi na gaya ng dati," pailing kong bulong
Tinignan Mo ako nang may luha
"Hindi man gaya ng dati, 
Ngunit may natatanging kariktan."

"Ano ang nais Mo mula sa akin?" aking hinagpis
"Ang makita mong Ako ay nagmamahal sa'yo"
Patuloy ang aking pagluha
"Kilala kita," sinabi Mong muli.

"Ano ang kailangan Mo sa akin?" aking pagdududa
"Ang iyong puso at ang iyong mga luha"
"Pagkatapos...?"
"Huhubugin kita sa wangis na Aking nais sa iyo."

Paano pa ba na ako'y magtiwala
Kung narinig ko lahat ng piraso ng aking puso
Bumagsak at nawala

"Magtiwala ka sapagkat kilala kita."
Ako ay tumango at humakbang pasulong,
Patungo sa iyo...

"Kilala kita. Mahal kita."

Hindi pa rin buo ang kasiguruhan sa akin
Ngunit makikinig sa Iyo
Sapagkat nagawa Mong makausap ang puso
At maipakita ang Iyong pagsuyo

Muli, iyong sinambit, "Kilala kita. Mahal kita."