An Anthology of Rains I

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We are used to the rains. My family, my neighbors, my countrymen. The rains take turns with the sun in governing the world we live in. Some times, it proves to be a burden. Some days, it is a beloved gift of comfort and seasonal rest. 

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When I was young, once it pours, all occupations will be halted. (Occupations being going to school and doing the school life). Since my mother also frequents the school, as a teacher, once cancellations happen, we would all be huddled at home seizing the "yey-no classes" day/s.    

There was this one morning when my mom, my siblings, and I were all already up when it was announced that classes were cancelled. I was probably in my third grade (what a bad year it was) at the time. My mom told us to go back in bed and thereafter, joined us. A rare sight! For at that age, I almost never saw my mom being anywhere else in the morning other than the kitchen and the dining areas. But she joined us and playfully tickled us. Maybe she was also tired and maybe the cancellation also excited her. We would never have known because we were so keen on consuming her. But I 'm grateful that that morning, she also chose to rest. An indelible moment. Maybe because I felt safe then. Safe and happy--an uncommon feeling for me in my becoming days at school. What a glitch the rains could offer.

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The rainy season happens in conjunction with the summer days. They alter in that pattern in our side of the world. It begins when my siblings and I were still in Pangasinan back in our childhood days. Days in Pangasinan meant that it was schoolbreak for us. It was a tradition. There was no summer spent otherwise, at least for me, until my early years in college. Once the first rain of the year happens, my cousins and I would find different ways to entertain ourselves while all cooped up inside my bae's (grandmother's) house. Some days, I watched the rain embellish the trees and flowers with those drizzling sparkles. Some days, we all exchange jokes among each other. Most times, we were all just entertained by one box, all of the family glued to the television. 

Those afternoons were particularly dark, because the rains were gloomy. We were not allowed to laugh. We did that secretly. We were not allowed to sing. We listened to the thunder instead. We were not allowed to make fun of the raging skies. Because it will get even angrier. My bae taught us to respect its wrath. So, we would just look at each other while being under the shadows of the wall, and keep our laughters to ourselves. Because, for some reason, kids always find something to laugh about and at. Even when the skies loom dark.

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To my grief, the rains shifted away from being equated to pausing when I started gaining more years. 

It became an obstacle to overcome when I have to get to work despite the weather. Or a source of worry if I wasn't prepared with supplies or if there are areas for repair at home. Some days, it ceased bearing any meaning to it. It is just another day in this ever repetitive world that demands sacrifices for a life well-lived. 

It became a hopeless symbolism when Filipinos' homes started getting flooded. It became a reminder of the relentless and remorseless corruption that hovers over the lives of my countrymen. These days, I call it the litmus paper that dampened the opaque walls and made what happens on the other side visible. The rains showed us how much we were/are being cheated and how much we are losing while we are making the sacrifices we were deceived to make. 

Tragedy, tragedy, what a comedy. 

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On some days when I can catch up with life, I spend the days reading while listening to the howling winds, while being embraced by its cold. These days are quite elusive now. But these are days I beseech God for. 

Can You give me the quiet rains today? 
Those gentle hums that chase my fears away

Can You make it a little bit colder?

That warm embrace in this world that makes me wonder

Can You make the skies look a bit gray?

A sheet of restedness when there's not a lot to say

Oh, gracious. What a ~

Oh, gracious. What a life. 

I've spent the past hours rummaging through my stuff, random social media accounts, and my thoughts. It seems to me that I am fumbling for something, but there's this unsystematic way in how everything has been placed that I do not just know what exactly it is I am looking for, I also do not know if I really should be looking for anything. 

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As I breathed in the chaos, I lied in bed and to myself. "These things are just trying to find their footing." It's as if I mystified the truths that have always been plainly peering at me: I am painfully thriving in being all the things that I am. Wow. Just typing that makes my eyes water, my fingers shiver. I am tired. 

I cannot be tired. I have to be grateful. I cannot be exhausted. I am exuding life. How often could one live a life dreamed of--with every job that the heart could account for all laid down on the plate? I am living the dreams and the beginnings of all/most of the things that I have imagined my life would be like. I cannot cease my labor, I need to seize my labor. 

My head is throbbing. Oh, gracious. What a life.

There's something undramatic in the way one realizes her life is steep. She pauses. Stares at the pathways that look ever so hard. Rolls her eyes. And breathes, "Here we go again." Just like that, she looks around and proceeds with the uphill treading, unsure, as usual, but always walking onwards. 

But there are seasons when she's immobile, with no motion left in her being. So, she pauses. Stares at the pathways that look ever so hard. Rolls her eyes. And breathes, "Here we go again." Just like that, she looks around and sleeps. A long one. A beautiful one. With an extent of forgetfulness. With an extent of satisfaction. Because sometimes, the only way to get to walk forward again is to just stop for a moment. 

For a moment. Oh, how long do you think would that take? When I think of it right this very moment, I crave it with all of my soul. I want to be in the moment when I am not anyone else but this woman who is cradled in poetry and music, who is mesmerized by books and cups of tea, who is entertained by waves and trees dancing. But there's a rope. Maybe it's invisible. But it's pulling me. "You gotta get going, always going. Because you are committed. You are promised. You are expected." 

Oh, gracious. What a life.

I am confronted by two roads often travelled. One says, go. One says, rest. I look at the two of them. I cannot make a decision. So, I tarry. I sit by the intersection. And get my phone to scroll because maybe I need to be entertained. I do not have the calibration to go. But I would feel guilty if I rest. I did something my brainwashed brain thinks would be a way to recalibrate, while not being fully detached. 

Oh, gracious. What a fool.

My head is still throbbing. And maybe it is not my head. It may be my heart. Or my conscience. All I know is that something rhythmic is disturbing me and calling my attention. To do what, I am still not sure. Because I am waiting. To be able to find that mythical footing. 

There are no resolutions found here. I cannot summon my will to please people. Or traditional writers, in this sense, where writings are concluded by lessons and hopes for the future. I am just being. 

Being lost. Being tired. Being sleepy. Being happy. Being expressive. 

And maybe this is it, gracious goodness. What a life, indeed.