"He knew what to do..." - an invitation to trust, an invitation to remember ( 2nd NCC - Day 3)

“Where shall we buy bread so that this people may have something to eat?’ He said this to test Philip, FOR HE HIMSELF KNEW WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO…” (John VI, 5-6)

There were about five thousand men, plus women, plus children. Three days and three nights of wandering and listening and everyone were exhausted. The master took pity on the people. He wanted the disciples to give them something so that they may eat and rest. The latter complained. None of the adults around understood the plea of the Lord. None of them wanted to part with the provisions that they have with them either. The grown-up men refused to trust Jesus to make something out of what they have with them; they offered him complaints and incredulity instead. A little boy came forward and gave all that he has. Jesus knew what to do. He merely tested them. Everyone else failed. Save for that little child…

The disciples were bewildered at the improbability of the Master’s command: “Give them something to eat yourselves!” immediately, calculators went calculating, debaters went debating, and all sorts of opinions and strategies and every manner of evading the problem flew aplenty in the thin, harried air. And this was not what the Master has in his heart. He was saddened that the immediate response these grown-ups gave was to take control of the situation and forget the most essential, in fact, the very first thing that they should have done. They forgot to ask help from Jesus. They forgot to first listen to Him before even setting out on a hunt for solutions they could never have. They quickly turned to the poverty of their empty hearts and found nothing. They forgot they have the Lord in their midst! They forgot Jesus!

This vicious habit of forgetting the Lord whenever faced with the challenges of life would continue to be handed over from one generation to another. The same sorry scenario would be repeated again and again in a seemingly never ending train of miseries and failed attempts at pseudo-discipleship. And the farce would go on, for as long as the essential thing remains buried beneath our insistence on being on top of every situation and other brash and brazen and utterly foolish display of adult-like stupidity and stubbornness. The sad story would continue, for as long as we keep on forgetting that “he knew what to do” and he’s just trying to find out if we truly trust him enough so as to first do whatever he asks us to do before even asking how or why.

The Lord was not looking for an intelligent solution or a scientific analysis to the trial that he has set before his proud disciples. He was simply looking for trust. He was simply asking for obedience. He knew very well what to do. Not one of the adults got the message. It was a small child who truly heard and understood the simplicity of the Lord’s invitation. It took a simple kid to show everyone the way.

This episode in the ministry of the Lord flashed into my mind as I went back to the WTC for the third day of the priests’ congress. More than two thousand years later, the event sprang back to life…Three days, five thousand++priests, hungry for the bread that the Lord would provide, huddled together in rapt attention.

The call remains as we trudge past this third day of the congress. Renewal for us would mean to never again forget that the risen One is in our midst! That as priests, we are never asked by the Good Shepherd to satisfy the hunger of the flock with what we do not have in us. He is not goading us to commit suicide. He simply asks us to trust enough. He simply invites us to remember…

Христос воскрес! Christ is risen! - (2nd NCC-Day Two)

Христос воскрес! The Christ of our faith, the Christ of our struggles, the Christ of our hopes and salvation; He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

The Christ of our tears and joys, the Christ of our every waking, the Christ whom we run to as refuge and defender; He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

The Christ of our longings, the Christ of our sufferings, the Christ of our victories; He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

The Christ who in spite of our betrayals, remain faithful and loyal, the Christ who awaits us at the end of our every misadventure, the Christ who never fails to invite: "come, let us break bread anew!" He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

The Christ at our side when we are defeated and down, the Christ who laughs out loud at our every pleasure, the Christ who delights in the littlest of our successes in life; He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

The Christ who offers all His divine and human perfection in exchange for all our imperfections, the Christ who doubles the love that we once in a while accord Him, the Christ who is at the finish line cheering us on as we make our way through, He is the risen Christ! He is truly risen, truly among us!

Christos voskres! Alleluia, Alleluia!

Days of Grace - 2nd NCC

DAY ONE, WORLD TRADE CENTER, CCP COMPLEX, MANILA… More than five thousand priests from all over the country congregated in what can be touted as the largest single gathering of bishops and priests in the Philippines to date. The occasion is The Second National Congress of the Clergy in celebration of the Year of Priests. The attendance is simply awesome and overwhelming. I cannot help but be humbled and feel immensely blessed to have been a part of this holy event.

Nothing’s more heavenly than con-celebrating the Holy Eucharist with virtually all my brother priests from all ages, walks of life and manners of ministry; fellow stewards in the vineyard of the Lord; brothers and friends with their triumphs and failures, hopes and frustrations, struggles and dreams, joys and pains, their many little deaths and moments of resurrection. This is communion revealed, a foretaste of the sumptuous banquet that awaits us in the Divine Liturgy in heaven.

The early hours of the afternoon saw us again gathered before the altar in silent worship of the Eucharistic Lord. The scenario was not unlike a vast army of soldiers in front of their commander-in-chief, the former called in from various fronts for a very urgent briefing regarding some future battles. But the comparison ends here. For the encounter of the stewards with The Good Shepherd himself feels more like an invitation to rest, to be healed, to be revived, to just spend time doing and thinking of nothing than to enjoy one another’s company. One could almost hear the Lord reminding each of us not to punish ourselves so much with the humanly impossible task that we too often usurp from Him that is to save the world. Here’s Jesus once more addressing his seated disciples! Here’s Jesus gently reminding us to take it easy, to pay more attention to making ourselves happy and free in the ministry, and to tend to our own wounds and hurts just as intently as we would those of the persons we serve as priests.

Truly a moment of grace…

The Return

“Same but not quite…” This is the thought that crossed my mind immediately upon re-entering through the gates of the San Onofre house. I’m back to my old station after spending the holidays with my friends and family in QC. I returned to paint some more and finish a standing commission that I vowed to accomplish as my “thank you” token for the host community which took me in for the duration of my “furlough” (as an official missive would describe my sabbatical year).

It has the same stillness and quiet ambience, but the air is tentative and a tiny bit queasy. The walls are flat and sturdy…and empty in between. Gone were the barking of Crash the Belgian Malinois, and Mustard the Dachshund; the gentle clip-clopping of lola Luth’s slip-ons as she ascends the stairs for her vespers and afternoon devotions; the grating of the side bar of the gates announcing the arrival of sister office girl; and the faint, modulated voices of news men echoing from the ground floor up to the second, then through a wall of the San Juan room, my rousing sound whenever I oversleep in my afternoon nap; and of course, the arrival or departure of the father of the house, that always catches everyone, especially me, unawares because he always seemed to float rather than actually use his bipeds in going in and around the house. One could only realize that he has passed by through the sudden appearance of a note of concern, a sealed envelope, a box of goodies or some other little trinkets and gifts at one's doorsteps, quickly followed by the grumbling of the gravel pavement which sounds like someone's spilling a sack of glass marbles. Hearing the scratchy sound will tell you that he is again off to some urgent pastoral visit to a far-flung barrio, a sick parishioner, school meeting, inauguration of a newly opened religious house, a retreat, or a dialogue with the local government officials. He is very much your average uncle, brother, father or friend though when he's at home.

And so I'm back. I’m ready for work. I’d been here before. I knew very well what I returned here for. And I feel I’m alone…

But really now, I am thankful that in spite of the recent changes in persons and situations, I still very well have this proper environment of solitude to return to. This is a must for me to be able to proceed in the humbling task of icon-writing. This feeling of being alone makes one crave for Him whose work it is to fill up the aching cavity of the heart. It is akin to the condition of an empty battery pack of some gadget waiting to be plugged once more to its life source. I came to be connected. And only hence could I proceed.

DEMOLISYON

Kalahati na lamang ng dati nyang rilag
Ang katapat kong bahay na dal’wang palapag
Na ngayo’y winawarat at pinaggigiba
Ng matapang na maso at makinang pantibag

Ay kahapon lang s’ya’y mapayapa’t himbing
At wala ni kapraso man lamang na awit
At ang tanging gambala sa maghapong tahimik
Ang miminsang takbuhan ng pusa’t bubwit

At sa bawat lagapak ng pinutol na haligi
At langitngit na matalim ng yerong pinupunit
Sabay ding binubungkal at hinihimaymay
Nagkulapol kong nasa at mga pangamba

ito na ang pirmi at malimit kong ulam
Sa bawat agahang may kape't periodiko
Magmula ng matapos dumaan ang prusisyon
Ng Pasko, at Nino at Poong Nazareno

At tanging dalangin ng naalimpungatang diwa
Maligtas sa panganib ng pait at duda
'pagkat layon kong tangi ang umiwas sa diwara
Ng palaboy na buhay at paghimlay sa kalsada

SONIA2

She can be irritating, sometimes amazing. She is sneaky at times with the ways of the world. She refuses nothing to anyone who would knock at her door, not sparing even her husband’s newest pair of jeans, or one or a couple of a son’s shirts and shoes. She criticizes loudly on the lousy get up of others and is unapologetic about it while she herself walks around in her cargo pants and a non-pair of slippers, the left one a rubber flip-flop, the right, a fluffy, plush sunflower. She goes about her chores with the nonchalance of a soldier in some communist army, expecting no consolation but her afternoon ‘til midnight soap opera cum news break cum MTV marathons. She hates it when corrected of her hilariously unique set of vocabulary. She loves it when she’s left alone with her dogs, and cats, and love birds and ducks.

She often goes overboard when she spoils someone. A sorely-missed fixture when unusually absent from a gathering. She can be meek as a lamb, but terrifying as a mad hippo when pissed. A trip to the mall for a cheap cone of soft ice cream is all that it takes to make her happy and forget her cares for the day.

She abhors wearing make-up, except for a dab of lip-gloss on some extremely important occasions she has to attend, which during her lifetime including my Diaconal ordination, would add up to less than ten.

She is mother of perpetual help to all distressed creatures, pets and humans alike, an impoverished philanthropist, a lover of simple things. She just is not a good communicator when it comes to unloading her own burdens and aches. She’d try desperately to clown around and laugh out loudly even when her voice would already croak at times, and tears cannot anymore remain tucked at the corners of her round, dark eyes. She would sit quietly at some corner and that would be her sanctuary on stormy, heady days.

All these and many other else, are what she is to family and strangers,to friends and foes, to neighbors both loved and loathed,to persons cherished and deliberately forgotten …She is God's gift of mirth for everyone...and I thank Him for my mom,Sonia!

Upcoming...

I’m gearing myself for my greatest painting challenge to date: a 5m. diameter, round icon of the Pantocrator to be installed at the underside of the dome of Saint Joseph Cathedral in Balanga, Bataan. This is the culmination of the Genealogy Project that I had been working on since July of 2009. It would be done in the same Byzantine style as that of the forty-four smaller panels of the Holy Ancestors of Our Lord. I hope to finish the work in 2 months time. Then I’ll be off to a new one.

As I am to embark on this holy endeavor, I vow to offer all my prayers, sacrifices and internal as well as technical preparations for the sanctification of all my brother priests, and also my family and friends. In a special way I dedicate this work for the good and generous clergy and laity of the Diocese of Balanga. It is my ardent prayer that I may be able to paint a convincing likeness of Jesus in my life no matter how pretentious it may sound much as I would labor and strive the best way I could to portray His beauty with pigments on a panel.

“Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, Have Mercy on us all!”

SONIA

On her way to Quinta Market, many mornings ago, she chanced upon a wet, days-old kitten ambling precariously out of a heap of garbage. It was a rainy mid-July morning.

At the sight of the hapless feline she froze, unable to move another step. Her world has momentarily paused. That pitiful cry was simply unbearable, impossible to ignore, too much to bear for her delicate, equally vulnerable heart…and an hour or two has passed…and then it became three.

Soon it was lunch time, and still there was no food on the table. Agitation set in among the waiting family members. speculations have circulated as to what must have happened to the market lady. Empty stomachs and chilly weather make for a testy household.Then suddenly, parting the curtain of trickling water from the awning she appeared at the door all soaked and trembling, smiling sheepishly, a kitty peeking through the empty basket that dangles from her right arm…her name (the market lady)...is Sonia!

PORNO XXX

THREE-TIERED, COIFFED MANES STUDDED with Swarovski, delicate toes encased in hundred-thousand-peso heels, she in her blings and he in his Armani. Ah La Dolce Vita! Come one, come all! You have the money, come right in! Join the bacchanalia to end all bacchanalias! Debauchery unhampered, undeterred, unapologetic. The plumper the ruby, the wider space per square inch one is accorded in the next Sunday's papers' lifestyle section.

Come now my dear! The avatars that party in style are not all mean and selfish. They do have bleeding hearts for the poor and the needy. Proceeds from the caviar-and-champagne cocktails do regularly trickle down the bereft and the down-trodden...or at least, a portion of it.

And what, pray tell, is so scandalous about having your latest yacht cruise or your youngest niece's under-the-sea theme party for her very first sneezing in a penthouse club on the top floor of some condo plastered in screaming colors on one-pagers of your favorite broadsheet? Or the regular parade of your latest acquisitions? Or travels in some exotic island somewhere near the edge of the earth? These things are not without their noble purpose in the campaign against poverty in our sorry, reeking sewer of a nation.

Our poor and hungry need to be reminded not to lose hope. They need something onto which they could pin their impossible dreams. They have to be anesthetized and be spared from the pains of real time existence. They need to be constantly regaled with tales of sumptuous tables and gorgeous apparels and current hook-ups of children of higher beings and scions of some deity in business and government so that they would always hold their heads up high in worship of the gods that dole some token packed noodles and used clothing to them come Christmastime. They are already poor. They were born poor. They will die poor. Even the good book would tell us, "The poor will always be around..." Sorry for them. On with our orgy. It's alright to indulge...just be sure to always have some loose change in your pocket, or a doggy bag of scarcely eaten baguette or pasta or whatever to hand out of your car window to some god-forsaken urchins at the next red light; The better to assuage the nagging little voice from within that interrupts your every attempt at acting out an object of your inordinate cravings.

For as long as we keep the soup flowing in our feeding- program frenzy, fill hundreds of loot bags with rags and torn shirts from our annual wardrobe makeover rituals, and dump them on the colonies of these miserable and hopeless bottom-feeders, there really is no need to worry, nor be afraid, nor feel guilty. Let leftover foods rot in our pantry and kitchen counters! Let our garbage bins groan with the excesses of our egotistic lifestyles! Let wastage rule our every turn! Let's shield our crumbling consciences from all these anguish and despair! Let's very well keep things this way. Let's all sit back, relax, and have a drink...tightly clutching our one-way ticket, as we happily wait for the next hell-bound coach!

Confessions of a Taong-Grasa-para-kay-Kristo Wannabe...

Off to a new set of challenges...barely into the second week of '10 and I now already have some crucial decisions to make as to where to head next in this journey that I am undertaking. It's official. Christmas is really over. The movement of people around me has again accelerated into their old hectic pace. I am at the moment stuck in the middle of it all, careful not to cause even the slightest of inconvenience and delay as to interrupt their important preoccupations. Not that I now feel like I'm being an overgrown sore-thumb or something. I know what I want. I know what to do. I know where to go. It's just that I occasionally am being saddled by this thought, this fear of not being able to live up to what is being expected of me. A bit insane, I concede. But the feeling is very true, very strong. I am not looking for affirmation from anyone. Neither am I out to prove anything. I just want to be. I just want to be able to contribute, to be of help, to create, to be useful either by being around or by disappearing for a while. I am not out to make a name for myself, to be sensational, to earn money, to indulge in some things which I may have been deprived of as a child, whatever that means...I just want to be happy! I just want to be free! I just want to happily and freely serve in whatever meager capacity I am capable of! This is my life goal at its simplest! It just escapes my understanding why aspiring to simply be happy and free seems to be a complicated, if not a nut-case predicament, for many.

If indeed aspiring to be free and happy and deliberately poor, simple, unfit for career advancement, and just a mere human being who is fully aware of his being so is really a case for the asylum, then please count me in! This is what being a fool-for-Christ truly means! I would willingly forgo a leg and an arm to even get anywhere near being one!

LUNES SANTO

Smartmatic nanganganib
Mag-deliver ng makina.
Baka ‘di makumpleto hanggang Mayo.
Lagot na naman, yari na
Ang resulta:
Halalang
Pang- hangal;

Lalakad kaunti…hihikab
Mag-iinat,
May kape at ‘yosing uupo
Sa bangkong malapit,
Dudungaw sa bintanang bukas
Nakatanghod mula sa 4th floor
‘dun sa trapik sa baba;

Magmula pa kanina
Nang sumabog ang sikat ng araw na mayabang
Ay paligsahan din ang hagibis at pagaspas
Sa karerahan ng oto at tao
Kumahog sa pagsunggab
Sa kararating na umaga;

...At ang pinaghalong ingay,
Ay paanyaya't pang-hele,
Sa tawag ng katre,
Ng muli kong pag-himlay.

The Festival

Rouges and police officers,
Prostitutes and priests,
Mice and stray cats…friends for a day

Knives and weapons,
Potty-mouths and hisses,
Bickering and insults…silent for a day

Market and gambling nooks,
Sidewalks and boulevard,
Night clubs and red houses…temples for a day

Pauses and gasps,
Panting and sobs
Laughter and shouting matches…prayer for a day

Quiapo with her children gathered from all over,
Believers and skeptics,
Healers and frauds
…family for a day

PALUSOT...

I ALMOST WASN'T able to sleep well last night. A hundred things were fighting it out, vying for attention, demanding concentration from my already zapped-out lobe. It was a merry mix of excitement and anxiety: excitement due to the steadily unfolding prospects for new and more artistic creations; opportunities that are hitherto just wishful thinking for me; anxiety because of this stubborn and nagging fear of the unknown, of what is to become of me in the coming months, even years. It doesn’t help that “limbo” has already been stricken out of the Catholic vocabulary a few years ago. I can still feel its haunting presence hovering over me every once in a while.

Yet it is precisely in summoning enough strength, in mustering sufficient courage to deliberately hurl one’s self to the great unknown, to the forbidding abyss of things-that-are-yet-to-happen, that one gets a shot at faith in its fuller sense. This experience of threading the precipice and deciding to take flight from it into wherever is the only way to turn to my life’s next chapter. I have to jump. I have to fly. I know it won’t hurt, or at least not that much I pray. I know in my innermost that I’ll be alright. Someone’s behind all these I believe; someone who thoroughly knows me; someone who thoroughly loves me.

And thus after having had my fill of this spiritual candy was I able to finally get back to sleep…a truly deep and restful one…and I was ten minutes late in today's morning mass...

Ninth of January

Barely a week...
After the plastic cast of the China-made Crèche recoiled
To their dank and dark repository
There to hibernate for 11 months, you rush
With urgent impatience
And fling open wide
The doors of my slumber

With a shrill, piercing wail she wept
That lady clad in the holiest of purple
One knee in prayer folded,
Another crimsoned by the onslaught
Of a thousand mad men scampering
Eager to caress, to take hold
Of your wooden benediction

O yes those ebony fingers
that lift to the skies
A million cries
For help and health, for death and breath;
The folded, crumpled five of them
In desperate cling ‘round the plywood beam
How sturdy they seem
Strong enough for my dreams

And for my hopes
And for those of the countless others
Who fight for the ropes;
Your stainless carriage blinding in its polish,
As it navigates and sails
On a vast blackened sea,
Spells nothing but salvation

Fearless forecast

Under the blazing sun a farm-helper is scattering fertilizer. Omen of the coming fortune of this infant year. He is the one who now announces: change is on its way! He is John the Baptist confronting the evil regime; an arsonist pouring gasoline over awakening embers. As sure as the upward, waving motions of his sturdy, hardened arms, with open palms letting loose a shower of soil-food, I can see the certainty of seeds of unrest sprouting, emerging, tentatively puncturing the seemingly unmovable stillness of the mid-afternoon sky with its bold and candid claim to its own place in the wide blue expanse. This while roots are thrusting more and more into the depths, and while at it, expanding, hardening, branching out, clinging firmly, refusing to let go.

Change is on its way! Old crusts are flaking. Stubborn hats are scampering, ancient gnats exploding. Eyes are getting wider, visions getting clearer. No more shall the filthy mouth of the many-horned monster ever deceive anyone into believing that it is well after the succor of the dispossessed when all it actually does is maim and mangle them. Heinous deeds shall be exposed in public places, there to be pilloried and burnt at stake. Not one of the perpetrators of the many ails of this sorry land shall be left unscathed. Fearsome wails and cries for blood shall volley through mountains and far distances. Defeat shall be stamped on the obscene foreheads of the impostors. Cages shall be unlocked, enabling a great multitude of freedom doves and vigilant hawks to populate the air and reclaim the land.

Interesting times indeed!

Ani

Bukid…basa, madulas
Ang pilapil na tinahak
Bitbit ang mamong naagnas, inihasik
Pinangalat sa mga tilapiang nag-aabang,
Gutom sa limos
Ng bisitang madalang

Ganito ang tahimik
At ginhawang saglit
Na alok ng nayon sa malayong doon
Ang kaprasong pagtakas sa lagim at limahid
Inasam at sa aking
Panalangi’y inusal

Aanhin ang luho o maraming angkin
Kung sa t’wina’y yamot at inip ang hatid
Buti pang dito sa payak,
Sa liblib
Pag kasama’y kaibigan
Ang ligaya’y aanihin

Mark X

Things are starting to feel normal again. The last remaining scraps of ham from the holiday table had already been sandwiched between hardened white breads and were cheerfully gobbled up by our housemates. The fridge is due for a defrosting anytime. I have also already developed a temporary aversion to anything that resembles ketchup-red spaghetti or any of its other mutations. Boxes and torn wrappers have already been disposed. A couple of dozens of cheap Tivoli lights we strung around plastic garlands in the early parts of last year’s December already have half of their numbers busted. I have now returned to my usual coffee-and- broadsheet morning rituals. It’s time now to get some things done. Holidays are finally over. I need now to quickly make myself useful in some way lest I begin irking people whose Christmas-y smiles and uppity dispositions are now fast thawing under the relatively humid temperature of the first days of January. Bus terminals are again literally bursting at the seams with a mass of angry, tired passengers all eager and anxious to either return to their provinces or be back in the city to once more slave away in the next few months and earn a few pittance for a yet another orgy of indulgences come this year’s set of festivities.

A grown-up’s holiday consists of these three: worrying, spending, dying …how I pine for those days long past, when holiday simply means playing, laughing, enjoying…

”unless one become like one of these little ones, he cannot enter the kingdom of heaven” (Mk 10)

Born Again...

Beautiful morning…Quiet, private, intimate…For a moment, it seems as if the world I woke up to was created just for me. No intrusive and unwelcome sound from outside. I can feel my own heartbeat, my warm breath, my skin stretching from my awakening, curled up body. I have a strange feeling that I already experienced all these before…a long way back when I was born. I feel like I’m being born once more, only this time, with the added blessing of actually being aware of it! This is Easter morning in all its glory! I looked around and there were no traces of the previous night’s nightmares and gloom. I didn’t stand up from bed. It felt more like I just sprung straight up. The suddenness, the spontaneity, the vigorous outburst of new life! In no time at all I at once found myself in front of the altar at the private oratory, vesting, disposing my senses, ready and eager for this day’s Lauds and Liturgy. It is the Lord! It is Jesus! (one morning at Bahay Pari-San Onofre, Mid-October, 2009)

Ang Bisita

Maagang sinamsam ni Maria
tiniklop, ang lamping luma
pinagpag, inal'san ng hanip...

"Bilis" ang sabi
ni Joseng amain,
sapu-sapo
ang 'di halatang Diyos
sa nag ekis nya'ng braso.
"Bilis" aniya "at hahayo pa ako!"
"paroroo't hahanap
ng aalmusalin natin."

Ngunit 'di pa man itong mag-asawa'y nakakilos
may aninag nang kinang sa 'di kalayuan
Bisitang marami, alila'y gayun din
magara't makintab
ang damit ay kutitap.

Tatlong panginoon sa tindig at kilatis
sa bitbit na handog ang rangya'y labis din
at ang birheng ina na tigib ng kaba'y
nagkubling bahagya
tumiklop,
nahiya.

"Tao po", anila, "tao lang po kami"
"at kami 'di kayo dapat magpatirapa.
Sapagkat ang pakay ng mga lingkod n'yo
ay hanapi't sambahin
hari namin at Diyos!"

At doo'y inihatag
sa dambanang dayami
ang insensong pangsamba, kamanyang at ginto.
At nagtiklop ng tuhod mga taong maringal
ng mabuksan na ang kahoy na pinto
tabernakulong tabla na luklukang mahalaga
ng batang panginoon
nitong langit at lupa.

Ay ito nga ang una sa mga pahayag,
Ito ring simula ng pagpapakilala
ng isang kakaibang uri at malaking kahibangan
kung paanong ang Diyos naging ating kaibigan!

2010-Day 1

First day of 2010...spent most of it in bed, tired and sleepy after last night's maniacal explosions, revelry, unbridled inhalation of a very potent mixture of burnt gunpowder fumes, carbon monoxide, soot, dust, and a thousand other evaporating poisons adrift in the thick, smoggy skies of new year's eve. It has been said that what greets you on new year's eve becomes your fate for the rest of it. I abhor the thought of spending the rest of 2010 vicariously swimming through snoot and smog. But then, it's just a saying. And I had already spent a good three decades and four years of my life breathing toxic fumes in my beautiful Manila so it's not really a cause for alarm or undue consternation for me anyway. It actually is already a fact of life. It is a part of me. It is my ecosystem. You bring me to the countryside where the sky is blue and the grass is green, where the air is crisp and the water sweet, where nights begin early and mornings begin even earlier...I convulse.

So back to my bedside, throat still stinging, eyes in pain, refusing to open. I struggled to stand up and walk to the fridge for a glass of cold drink. An eerie silence enveloped me. I am alone. I am all by myself. There's not even that usual scratchy sound from the bread box near the kitchen counter, little mice gnawing furiously on the hard, plastic edges of the bread container. There is just me here this afternoon. Me and the silent world all around me. The quietness of it all is strangely not unlike that of a monastery. It was a silence that invites. It was a silence that calms and reassures. That brief moment of walking from bed to the fridge suddenly felt no different from the excitement and rush one experiences in a pilgrimage, particularly the Quiapo or Makati to Antipolo one that I used to participate in annually, as it nears its end. It was one, short, purposeful stride.

I sat down and thought, "It's 2010 already and I had just spent 3/4 of its first day snoozing and now having a drink." I am still here. I am still breathing. I survived Ondoy. I didn't sink with some WWII vintage ferries south of Manila bay. I am nowhere near the deadly 22km killer radius of the now regurgitating Mayon Volcano. I am not one of those innocent freedom fighters and beacons of truth whose simple, noble lives were summarily snuffed out by the infernal beasts called Ampatuans in Maguindanao ...I am still around. And I have so much to be thankful for in being so. I am still here, and this is a responsibility.