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.