the dawn treader

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-19T04:46:00.000+08:00

High School Reunion as Ritual

2011-07-13T11:52:00.002+08:00

I understand why so many are apprehensive about the idea of a high school reunion.

It is always fraught with mixed emotions – full of surprises, expectations, and even foreboding. But it is a trip that is necessary – for one reason or another. Whether it is a trip eagerly anticipated, or dreaded, you find yourself preparing for that trip. And I discover as one gets older (at least on my part), the more emotional the preparation and the trip becomes – a sentimental sort of journey embarked with the most hopeful of wishes, and the direst of apprehensions.

One is filled with tensions both terrible, and yet enthralling. While one is no longer the insecure, awkward youth that first stepped into the portals of your beloved school, you are beset by a whole new set of adult struggles. You know that you are no longer that person that left. In the passage of time, and in the breaking and mending of hearts, souls and body has left marks that can sometimes make it difficult to recognize our old selves.

It is a poignant, bittersweet embarkation – for it is a glad reunion but also a time for grieving for the things we have lost along the way.

And what of the classmates who saw you before all of it changed? Fellow pilgrims toward the path of adulthood, we were all incomplete and still searching for an identity. And in this sometimes-difficult pilgrimage, we have been unintentionally cruel, as Ms. Bunagan once said reprimanding us of our childishness. You remember all the good times shared, the excruciating, the embarrassing, the fun. Old wounds are revisited with the glad discovery that it is healed, leaving only a faint scar.

Then of course, came the day of the reunion.

What words can describe the waves of exhilaration and sweet notes of happiness that came in tides that crest and surge? It is both tender and triumphant. It is laughter with tears shed in joy and sometimes in sorrow. It is redemption, and cleansing. It is confronting that which you feared most but only to realize it no longer holds any terror. It is coming into terms with the mistakes you have made, but also letting go of the wrong committed to you. It is a cold, tall drink that brings relief to a parched soul. It is exorcising ghosts of the past but also embracing a great future so bright, as one 80’s song would put it, “you gotta wear shades.”

The ancients resort to rituals in an attempt to recapture a sacred moment – a space and time where one is able to experience that which is transcendent and ideal. Rituals - especially rites of passage mark the time of growth and development. It is a time of renewal and transformation. It is about the future. Rituals however hold another important dimension: a look back into the past.It is a nod of respect to what has happened. Without the past, one cannot be what you are now, or what you will be.

I don’t want to turn all geeky (but we all were and are – right?!), but like characters from the Greek mythology, we go through metamorphosis. It is the shedding of the old self so that we are not overly burdened by the cares of the past. But it also to recognize what our past has contributed to make us what we are now. It might be painful, it might be traumatic, or for some, sublime and quite enjoyable, but it must be named, and by naming it we are empowered to face a greater future.

High school reunions has taken on this ritual aspect, and for that we are grateful.

A New Blog

2011-05-25T11:35:00.006+08:00

Click here for a new blog. It's called UpGazer. It is a record of my thoughts/meditation/devotional/journal based on Eugene Peterson's The Message//Remix: Solo. Please visit - comment if you like. Thanks!

10 Best Eating Places in Bacolod So Far (And No, I’m Not Going to Talk about Chicken Inasal)

2011-05-22T23:13:00.002+08:00

So I had a terrible, overcooked, overpriced burger recently for dinner. This restaurant (I won’t mention the name – Bigby’s) with pretensions to franchise kingdom even had the gall to charge P35 when I asked for mustard! For the most part, I was berating myself. I could have tried any of the local restaurants here in Bacolod and know that I will not be disappointed. One of the glorious discoveries I have made living here in Bacolod only for a few months is that this city likes to eat! Gourmands abound.

I know Bacolod is famous for their chicken inasal, and rightly so. The chicken really is delicious, but there is more to this city than the ubiquitous delicacy. This city likes to eat out, and this is proven by the sheer number of delis, cafes and restaurants – each boasting a specialty of some sort. Quaint, little places pepper the city like hidden treasures waiting to be discovered. I could turn geeky and extol my theories about the rich, interesting history of this island, and its implication to the dining habits and tastes of the Negrenses, but I’ll spare you. I know I have only been here a few months and I can’t say I’ve explored much, but these places are by far what stands out for me. In no particular order, I give you the best eating places in Bacolod:

1. Lord Byron’s. Tucked in the quiet corner of Homesite, this place serves melt-in-your-mouth goodness of spare ribs. The place is a simple affair with gravel flooring, and rustic benches and tables. You need to come early, or call in advance. Their spare ribs are famous and they are gone fast. They have another place near Shopping – but it is beside a car-wash shop. It is a tiny booth and is only for take-out.

2. Twist at Sugarland Hotel. They have an assortment of really good dishes – the steaks are quiet good, but my personal favorite is their lengua estofado. Creamy and surprisingly light, you have not tasted lengua estofado like they serve it.

3. Bascon Café – This place – walking distance from the office, is a favorite. Quiet, elegant and they serve moderately priced but delicious food. Traditional fares like callos, lengua estofado, steaks make up the menu, but there are surprises as well. My personal favorite is the pesce balsamico. Steamed fish with salad and reduced balsamic vinegar sauce, it is a delight and an inspiration. Ask for the mashed potatoes to go with it.

4. Café Uma/ Trattoria Uma – A bit pricey, but so worth it! The pasta dishes and the thin-crust pizza is like a celebration unto itself, every bite a flavorful cry of triumph. It was the first time I saw my companion who is a picky eater wipe his dinner roll with the leftover sauce from the pasta. Yes, it is that good. I am saving up for their wagyu beef burger. I know that it will be a delight!

5. Café 1925 – This is actually in Silay City – around 30 minutes from Bacolod City. Small, quiet and unassuming, I liked the décor. Located in what is termed “Paris of Negros,” the café is within walking distance from the heritage houses that boast of the opulent history of the sugar barons. The first time we went, we were hungry and ordered their menu for the day: osso boco. I love the fall-off-bone tenderness of the beef, and the spicy tomato sauce. It was a perfect meal after we have explored the Hofilena Heritage House and the voice of Mon Hofilena still ringing in our ears and the images of his magnificent art collection dancing in our minds. But the best surprise was just how good their coffee was! Paired with churros con chocolate, the coffee was just the right amount of boldness, tone and flavor. It was so good I’d have made Café 1924 my coffee place of choice had it not been too far away from where I work.

6. Pala-pala – Not the exploitatively expensive pala-pala along 18th Street (where dinner can cost up to P8K), go for the original pala-pala at the corner near the Capitol. Just in front of the seafood market, there are restaurants that will cook and serve you the seafood you buy at the market. It won’t be fancy, but the food will make up for the lack of sophistication. I love how they stuff the squid with lemon grass and grill it lightly – then dip in spicy “sinamak.” They also make the best kinilaw this side of the South.

7. Jacopo’s – intensely flavored Mediterranean-inspired dishes, this place is out of the way corner of that building in front of Robinson’s. You have to look for it because it is easy to miss, but when you find it, you are in for a delightful treat. Their dishes are meant to be shared, and they come in gigantic servings (in gigantic serving plates). Try their pita bread with three dippings: baba ganash, hummus, and chili. You will love it. Try their beef red curry. Oh my! Or maybe their salad with feta cheese and candied almonds, and smoked chicken. Yum! Or maybe their fish with tomatoes in olive oil. So good! Or try their sampler kebabs of chicken, mutton and beef. Ah! You will gesture with your hands, smile a lot and declare, “this is so good!”

8. Calea – Calea is famous for their cakes and their pastries. The three-layered chocolate cheese cake alone is enough to convince you this is a little slice of heaven here on earth. Another favorite is the rhum-raisin pudding with vanilla ice cream. It is, without exaggeration and simply put, paradise. But what I find delightful are their sandwich offerings. Delicious and diverse, they make Calea not just a desert place, but a fun eating place too. I’ve tried their chunky chicken sandwich with apples (I think they call it the Waldorf?), their tuna on a rye, among others, but my favorite is their grilled chicken and vegetables with a tangy barbeque sauce. I also love the stuffed ciabatta with pepperoni, cheese, tomatoes and lettuce. It comes in generous servings I could never finish it in one sitting. I usually have the other half wrapped to go to be enjoyed later.

9. Cookies and Crumbs – Right in front of the New Government Center, this oddly-named restaurant (you’d think they just serve cakes, and pastries) has surprisingly good combo meals. I love the mozzarella chicken, pesto spaghetti and salad green combo. The coffee is mediocre at best, but the namesake, their cookie is chewy and tasty.

10. Café Bob’s Deli – I am talking about the portion at the back of Café Bob’s along Lacson where they have a mini-grocery and a deli with assorted cheeses and meats and hams. The pizza was light, crispy and a delight, while the pasta was robust and earthy- just the way you would envision a perfect meal after a long day at work. So good!

The Forgotten Unicorn

2011-04-17T15:51:00.002+08:00

Psychological Meaning: In mythology, unicorns are either white or multi-coloured. They unite the spectrum showing that the one is the essence of the many. They are the mythical embodiment of the inner realm of the imagination. They may also represent power, gentility and purity. Your dream may be an expression of inspiration and wonder at the marvels of the inner world.

Somewhere in between the hidden spaces of lucid dreams and wakeful slumber, i see you...
You whom I lost so long ago, You whom I have let go in my careless whim to grow up fast I remember you

Abandoned, you stand there - the traces of your majesty cannot be hidden by the marks of neglect upon you.
You embody all the childhood dreams we have left behind in our pursuit of grown up ambitions.

Summer 2011 Reading List

2011-04-03T21:42:00.002+08:00

It has been a while since I've done this, but here is my summer reading list for 2011. It is not much, but hey - one or two books a week ain't that bad, right?

1. Paul Theroux' Ghost Train to the Eastern Star: On the Tracks of the Great Railway Bazaar

This is a follow-up of his classic, The Great Railway Bazaar written 30 years ago. He revisits the the world he travelled back when communism was still strong in Eastern Europe, and where trains where the best way to see the land from Europe to Asia.

2. James Clavells's Tai-Pan

I first read this when I was in highschool. I found this on the bargain bin of NBS for P75. Will definitely re-read.

3. Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat/ Three Men on the Bummel

The grand daddy of all the travel narratives, it is funny and with surprising keen observation and commentary about life, existence and what brings meaning to our pursuits.

4. David Mas Masamuto's Harvest Son

A memoir of sorts of his recollection growing up and working on a grape/peach farm. Lyrical and insightful it looks at the rich and sometimes complicated histories of families and their tradition. Here's what is says on the author's website about the book: " In prose of zen-like clam and clarity, Masumoto relates how he learned to prune vines and survive a storm; to value the knowledge of old farmers and the rusty tool forgotten in the shed; and to take on a leadership role in his Buddhist community. He also shares life vividly in the present: how it feels to really sweat while you work; the way dust cakes on your neck when you're driving a tractor; the pleasure of rinsing off under a cold faucet; a grandmother's joy at hearing that her grandson will visit her birthplace; the way grapes are dried into raisins; and the way a family works together in the fields.

5. Tim Brooke's Guitar: An American Life

The blurb reads, "this book is a narrative of the cultural history of the guitar and a chronicle of the intricate process that went into the construction of the instrument."

6. Anne Lamott's Grace Eventually: Thoughts on Faith

Reading Lamott is like listening to a favorite eccentric aunt - full of wisdom, witticism and surprising insights.

7. Roxanne Coady, editor, The Book that Changed my Life: 71 Remarkable Writers Celebrate the Books that Matter Most to Them

So tell me about your reading list...

How To Be Alone

2011-01-07T00:18:00.002+08:00

But when you notice that it is vast, you should be happy; for what (you should ask yourself) would a solitude be that was not vast; there is only one solitude, and it is vast, heavy, difficult to bear, and almost everyone has hours when he would gladly exchange it for any kind of sociability, however trivial or cheap, for the tiniest outward agreement with the first person who comes along, the most unworthy...but perhaps these are the very hours during which solitude grows; for its growing is painful as the growing of boys and sad as the beginning of spring. But that must not confuse you. What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours - that is what you must be able to attain.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letter 6, Letters To A Young Poet

John Donne’s famous lines, “No man is an island,” have given encouragement to many, for it is true that we cannot live apart from others. We seek company; we build these webs, connections and interconnections of relationships, associations and friendships. But when we think about it, we are islands. We are islands floating in a common sea. This is not to be anti-social, or to be aloof, or uncaring, or unconnected with others.

In the final analysis, we are all indeed alone. At the end of the day, as Rilke poignantly describes, we are left our own life. We are left with this essential condition of isolation. Oh we rail against it, we find ways to drown out this solitude that is ours. We are afraid of being alone. We are terrified to think that we can be disconnected. We do not want to be left by ourselves, and we resort to all things in order to avoid it, in order to never let it happen. Music, television, noise, friends – all these to avoid the gnawing feeling we are islands floating on our own. We are derisive of those who treasure their privacy, who want to be left alone.

But as it is essential in us, this separation, this basic solitude that marks our existence, we must learn to come into terms with it.

Only by making peace with our self – in the primeval understanding of our independent selves can we come into a real connection with others. In our separation can we better appreciate our associations with others. It is not being hostile, it is not being anti-social when we learn to cultivate our private, solitary gardens.

It is, rather, because of a deeper appreciation of others, of self, and the relationships that must be cared for with diligence.

Ann Morrow Lindbergh has this to say, “When one is a stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others...only when one is connected to one’s own core is one connected to others. And, as for me, the core, the inner spring, can best be refound through solitude.”

A Holiday Greetings

2010-12-18T11:17:00.003+08:00

To all friends - here's wishing you the profoundest joy and stupendous blessings throughout the year, by the most abundant grace of God!

Simple Virtues: An Excerpt

2010-10-06T00:56:00.003+08:00

here's another excerpt on that book i've been trying to finish...chipping at it one word at a time :-)

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true,
whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise, think on these things.
Philippians 4:8

In Search for the Simple and Deep Things

It was midsummer when we went to the idyllic island of Guimaras to spend ten days at the Trappist monastery. Of the myriad memories that assail, I remember first the heat – infernal and all-encompassing. In my waking dreams, I go back to that place and feel the sun on my face once more. Sweat poured profusely comingling with the tears the flowed in copious amount those ten days we had – seminary professors, pastors, counselors, medical doctors, social workers that made up our group. Only when the dusk comes that you find relief from the humidity and the heat.

Then I remember the laughter – from our boisterous group still adjusting to the unaccustomed silence, and the gusty belly-laughs coming from the monks – from Brother Bruno, our retreat master. He was witty and funny and charming. In his life before he entered the cloisters, he must have been a gregarious, sophisticated man of the cloth. One would think that monks living such a hard life would be glowering, dour men who would never smile or have fun. But that is farthest from the truth. None were as cheerful and light hearted as these men.

The monks were quick to laugh, to smile, and almost in child-like simplicity. They went about their duties with quiet dignity. When they rise at 2:15am to prepare for the Vigils, the monks no longer go back to bed, but devote their time in prayer and intercession for the slumbering world. They then engage themselves in manual labor, tending the farm, the food processing, and many other works. Work and prayer- this is their credo. At certain hours (7 times in a day), the bell rings to call the faithful to times of prayer. During the prayer time, the monks lift up songs of praise and adoration to God as they chant the psalms. A portion of the time is also devoted to Scripture, meditations and readings. I love the moment of silence after the Scripture is read.

In a flurry of memories, the details come into focus: Calloused, sunburned hands folded in repose, stilled from the labors of the day. Palms held open, it is a poem of praise, a hymn of celebration. These hands, this life: all are offered as a fitting sacrifice. In your mind’s eye you see the gray robe swaying gently, the brown belt swaying rhythmically along the waist, sandaled feet hurrying to go back to the enclosure – like lovers on their way to a tryst, or children on their way to play- these are images evoked as the monks nimbly proceed to the chapel for the prayers. Indeed, the monks are on their way to meet their Love and child-like, they lift up their eyes to gaze at the Father in wonder and awe.

In the space between sleep and being awake, I hear it once more: the sonorous chants of the monks as it echoes in the chamber, and strikes a chord that reverberate to that place where we hide the most secret, most sacred of our being. In the darkness, a faint light sends a sliver of ray that lifts up the weakened spirit as His presence is made manifest in the absence of abstractions. (This is during the Compline, the last prayer for the day. It is a worship service done in total darkness, and only the voices of the monks can be heard. They are singing, chanting psalms and prayers to the Lord.)

And then, silence – the absence of noise that comes from the outside world, but it is also the stilling of the inward voice that sometimes yells when it is not being listened to. The noises we have come to rely on to cover the emptiness of our lives are slowly peeled away. We cringe at the thought of so much silence, because ultimately it leads us to look inward, and what we see, what we hear there will tell us how we really are, how we have been –and we may not like what we see there. Silence is uncomfortable, painful even. But those who dare immerse themselves in silence, and in solitude find Someone waiting for them there – and find acceptance, not condemnation. We find love instead of rejection. We find grace that unshackles us from the burdens of our religion.

In the absence of worldly possessions – the dearth of outside distractions, how does one find fulfillment? The learned Jonathan, one of our companions, tells us, “We think that life in the monastery – life without t.v., without magazines, without the modern gadgets we think necessary to enjoy life- is at best boring, and at worst, tragic. But we who are outside the enclosure, with all these things, don’t we also find life boring, and tragic? It is therefore not these things that bring meaning and joy into our lives. It points to something else”

I agree. It is not the outward, glitzy things that matter most. There is more to life than these. However, we have somehow forgotten that below the surface of things are matters of profound significance. We are satisfied skimming at the exterior. But we have exchanged the simple and the deep things of God for the shallow and the complicated of this world. No, I am not an advocate for the ascetic life of the monks. In fact, for me, one of the highlight of the retreat is the 10th day, when we can go back to our noisy, busy lives. And yet somehow, the words of Jonathan struck a chord.

If it is not these things that bring meaning and joy to our lives, what does? What should be pursued? When all is stripped away, what should be the essential way to live?

The desert fathers of long ago described it as “in simplicitate cordis, in simplicity of heart. It described a life stripped of all that is unessential and trivial, a life increasingly focused only one thing is important: seeking Christ. This is how one should live. This is what should be pursued. And the expression of this life is found in the works of our hands, in our dealings with others, in the way we treat and look at ourselves. There is no separation from who we are and what we do. Who we are – our inner most identity, and what we do - our dealings, the very thing that defines our pursuits – these are integrated in an uncomplicated unity. We find its most meaningful manifestation in simple virtues.

The Weary Kind

2010-10-06T00:38:00.003+08:00

OST from the movie "Crazy Heart"

The Weary Kind
by Ryan Bingham

Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing to lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

You called all your shots
Shooting 8 ball at the corner truck stop
Somehow this don’t feel like home anymore

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your body aches…
Playing your guitar and sweating out the hate
The days and the nights all feel the same

Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
Whiskey has been a thorn in your side
and it doesn’t forget
the highway that calls for your heart inside

And this ain’t no place for the weary kind
And this ain’t no place to lose your mind
And this ain’t no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try

Your lover's won't kiss…
It’s too damn far from your fingertips
You are the man that ruined her world

Your heart’s on the loose
You rolled them seven’s with nothing to lose
And this ain’t no place for the weary kind

This song and the movie moved me in ways that soothe the aching pain within...Jeff Bridge was awesomely good in this!

Waiting for the Gushing Waters

2010-09-16T21:30:00.001+08:00

There are things that you think you know, but in reality you only have an inkling of the depth and the significance of this very thing right in your face. But how many times have just given it more than just a cursory glance. We are satisfied with the briefest of knowledge – we sometimes lose patience and do not dare to see what is beyond. For the most part, we do not explore out of fear – out of discouragement – out of reticence perhaps. And as a result, we miss the treasure that lie just beneath the surface.

There are detours and dead ends that seem to lead one-way streets to nowhere. There are corners and pockets of darkness that seem to trap and where the air seems dank. And by escalating increments, the waters of the brook seem to dry up, the raven-brought provisions seem to become rarer and rarer. Where there was comfort and peace, there is nothing now but brambles and sun-baked soil. Take heart, for this moment of stillness and inactivity is actually a deep sigh of preparation – a pause before the heavy onslaught of affirmation is about to pour.

“Blessed are those whose hearts are on the highways to Zion…” intones the pilgrim gladly traversing the road to significance and deeper meaning. Blessed are they indeed for even as they pass through the Valley of Weeping, they shall know firsthand the sweetness and the freshness of the cool spring that shall gush forth as they come out of that deep chasm. And the parched land shall be watered, the thirsty shall have their fill.

Drink, for the water is sweet.

Drink, for this spring shall be your satisfaction.

Joy: an excerpt

2010-07-15T12:33:00.002+08:00

Here's another excerpt from the book project i am working on...chipping away at it, one word at a time hehehehe...let me know what you think....

“The joy of the Lord is our strength”

I enjoy a good laugh as much as the other person. We belong to a culture who loves to laugh – even in inopportune times, we laugh. As a people, we like no better than to sit back and have fun. And why not? There is something musical about the boisterous laughter shared by friends and family. There is something divine in the shared times of joy among loved ones. For in the midst of abundance, at the vortex of giddy happiness, in the gut of a belly laugh, we sense a Being whose mirth is the source of all that is good, beautiful, and humorous. We recognize that this is His gift to us – the gift of laughter. Laughter enables us to be glad about His goodness- that there is much to celebrate, to feel good about this world, His creation, no matter how bleak, how gloomy it can be, it still is a place worth enjoying.

In a sense of merriment, all that is good and refreshing spills out in pure and sweet notes of hilarity – a love song of sort, offered up to Him who allows us to have this sense of wonder and delight. To laugh is to appreciate His ways – it is to celebrate His abundance.

Laughter allows us to see the ridiculous in us, the absurd, the foolish – and with laughter, we sense that there is nothing wrong with being ridiculous, to be comical at times. We are not too twisted, too cynical so that we are unable to acknowledge life’s little jokes.

Laughter harks back to times when we were more innocent, unblemished –holy. Laughter is holy. An absurd notion, but when you consider it, it is in laughter that we sense purity, and a sense of separateness from a world that has become too dour, too serious. Perhaps, one of the marks of holiness is to be able to appreciate, and indeed offer peals of laughter to Him who created everything, and created everything good.

But what happens when the laughter stops? What if humor runs dry, because much as we don’t want to be killjoys and sourpusses, there will be times when there darkness will come, and tears will flow? What happens when the reason there is more reason to cry than to laugh?

This is why we come to the virtue of joy.

Joy is a sun that shines and permeates our existence. Even when the storm clouds cover it, its golden rays will soon seep through the dense haze, and allow us to bask in the warmth and the life-giving abundance of its splendor. Joy is the sun that allows us to weather through the most difficult circumstances. Joy is the rhythm we hear, and the music that plays in our hearts no matter what the circumstances are. Joy is the spring that allows us to step up and move forward in the many challenges of life, even when it is difficult to laugh. It is a virtue for joy is a treasure whose value will not diminish in the midst of a crisis.

But joy is sometimes described as elusive. In this dark, hostile world only the unrealistic can expect joy. And yet, I have a sneaking suspicion, that if we only look hard enough, if we only truly see, this joy – this most hidden and most surprising of all God’s gifts isn’t so hard to find after all. Of course, this is not to say that life will always be sunny or rosy. Being joyful does not mean being out of touch of reality, or being naïve fools that expect happy endings all the time.

Joy is so much than just fairy tale happy endings grandly produced and aired nightly in telenovelas and romantic stories we read. In fact, joy has nothing to do with the shallow schemes or unrealistic expectations. Even when there seems to be no happy endings, joy will not be lost, nor diminished. Joy comes from somewhere deep, somewhere truer. It comes from the Giver of all joy.

This is where abiding joy comes from – from the wells of the ever refreshing presence of He who finds delight in us. He is life – He is the source of all that is good and beautiful. The result of our being where He is fills us with a joy that lasts even in the gloomiest of times. He is our joy. His presence – strong and mighty, tender and loving, terrible and kind – brings the deeply-felt sense of security and belonging. His strength is our joy – even when the crops fail, and the dark last longer than it should. This brings to rest the notion that joy is about the ups and downs of life’s circumstances. It rejects the very idea that our joy can easily be lost in the gloomy passages we sometimes have to pass through.

Because He is our joy, the very idea of being in his presence brings warmth to us. It is in finding ourselves and declaring ourselves desperately dependent on Him that we find this elusive treasure of joy. Scripture lets us on the secret: “If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” (Jn. 15:10–11)

My Odd Shelf

2010-07-05T09:35:00.003+08:00

Anne Fadiman in her book, Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader, speaks of her “odd shelf.” She says, “It has long been my belief that everyone’s library contains an Odd Shelf. On this shelf rests a small, mysterious corpus of volumes whose subject matter is completely unrelated to the rest of the library, yet which, upon closer inspection reveals a good deal about its owner.” Fadiman then provides samples of such odd shelf. She shares, “George Orwell’s Odd Shelf held a collection of bound sets of ladies’ magazines from the 1860’s, which he like to read in his bathtub… Vice Admiral James Stockdale, having heard that Frederick the Great had never embarked on a campaign without his copy of The Encheiridion, brought to Vietnam the complete works of Epictetus, whose stoic philosophy was to sustain him through eight years as a prisoner of war.” Fadiman further discloses that her own odd shelf contains sixty-four books about polar exploration.

Reading her excellent essay, I took stock of my library and tried to see if an odd shelf may be detected in my collection. I am a bargain book hunter, and I am an inveterate reader, so I own an eclectic collection – from Garbriel Garcia Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera to Moose Hunting in Canada to The Art of Origami Vol. 10 (who can resist at P30). If gauging from the number of books one has on a certain topic or theme can one identify the odd shelf, I would say that I do own quite a collection of travel narratives (travelogues?). What are travel narratives? I am hard-pressed for a definition, but to the best of my ability to define, a travel narratives are certain books that talk about places, people and perception an author may have about a certain locale or geography.

Example of this is Paul Theroux’s travel series. He traveled through the Americas on a train, journeyed throughout Africa, travelled around the Mediterranean basin, explored the Pacific islands, and other exotic places. His narratives are also a study of human behavior. Although he has taken a more sarcastic tone that I don’t appreciate in his later travel works, I always enjoy the idea of going on adventures, discovering new things, seeing beauty and splendor even in what other people consider mundane.

Bill Bryson is another favorite, His humorous takes on the places, people, and things he had seen has given me laugh out loud situations a lot of times – sometimes in awkward places where people look up and stare at the possibly crazy person beside them, uproariously guffawing at who knows what. His rollicking adventure through the Appalachian trail, or through Europe is always entertaining. Bryson makes arduous hiking fun. And the way he describes the places. There are moments of pure poetry. He says in Neither Here nor There, “Is there anything, apart from a really good chocolate cream pie and receiving a large unexpected check in the mail, to beat finding yourself at large in a foreign city on a fair spring evening, loafing along unfamiliar streets in the long shadows of a lazy sunset, pausing to gaze in shop windows or at some church or lovely square or tranquil stretch of quayside, hesitating at street corners to decide whether that cheerful and homey restaurant you will remember fondly for years is likely to lie down this street or that one? I just love it. I could spend my life arriving each evening in a new city.” Exactly, right?

Peter Mayle’s accounts of his life in Provence takes me to that exotic place I have only heard of, read about or seen in romantic movies. He wrote a series of memoirs of his stay in Provence, and his most famous is “A Year in Provence.” This is followed by a series of Provence memoirs. Droll and funny, the narrative tells of the food he has eaten, places he has been to, indoor plumbing and the eccentric people he has met. Mayle also wrote novels set, where else, in the different places in Provence. My favorite is “Hotel Pastis”- the story of a wealthy Englishman building a hotel. Although I was a little bit disappointed with the movie adaptation of “A Good Year,” Mayle’s vision of that part of France was integral in the narrative and was captured quite well on film.

Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun started my interest in this genre. A friend gave me a battered copy (a Booksale find- what else?). The film with the same title that starred the divine Diane Lane was loosely based on Mayes’ book. Her vivid account takes you right there – Mayes’ doing her early morning marketing – the grotto where an old man brings flowers to everyday – the food, the scent, the texture – all there for one to virtually experience. You can almost feel the warm juices of the grapes that tasted purple. Her next book, “Bella Tuscany,” although not as captivating as her first was also charming. This of course started my buying any Tuscan-themed books I could find in my friendly neighborhood secondhand bookshop.

There are other travel writers – Orhan Pamuk’s poignant recollection of the Turkey of his youth, Ma Jian’s introspective travel through Communist-regime China. Graham Greene’s travels eloquently written travel memoir has captured not only the places he has been to, but also his personal journey toward himself and gives us a glimpse of who he is.

But why do I buy these books? Why are these books fascinating? The very idea that a separate world out there is waiting to be discovered mesmerizes me. The thrill of discovery – the wonder of experiencing the world in a whole new way is captivating. I know I may never see these places I read about, but reading about them keeps the dream alive.

Tuscany! Provence! Iceland! China! Africa! Columbia! Tierra del Fuego!

What is your odd shelf?

The Search for the Exotic, or My Manila Weekend Lunch Adventure

2010-06-16T00:24:00.005+08:00

Taken from this site: www.myhome.ph

Growing up in the rustic province, anything coming from the big city is considered exciting and exotic. While generally food coming from the provinces is considered good food – fresh and organic vegetables, chicken and other products, they do not hold a candle to the various unfamiliar and fabulous city products. Admittedly, home cooked meals and ubiquitous party fares such as kare-kare, escabeche and such were delicious, it just does not have the element of the exotic and the fascinating. Back when Dunkin Donuts cannot be found anywhere else in the Philippines but Manila, it was the ultimate pasalubong from relatives flying in for vacation. You can still see traces of that at airports where travellers carry boxes of that saccharine goodness. McDonald at that time held some sort of a mystical spell for a probinsyano boy like myself. Now, those growing up in the urban jungles would find the notion of a McDonald as exotic absurd. Why would one consider a hamburger or a donut exotic? Indeed.

The notion of the exotic is a contested idea. Recent developments in culture studies, influenced by multi-displinary efforts, have problematized the representation of cultural identities and the establishment of the notions of the “exotic.” Implications of racism, misrepresentation and essentialism have now overturned generally accepted understanding of identity and cultural collectivity, and hence the idea of the exotic. These representations are not neutral portrayals, but are rife with issues of power, and the Focauldian notion of discursive production. Understanding ethnic identities are now mixed up in relation to marginality, of centrality and of being in the periphery. There are now ideas of how artificial some of the categorizations that were once held as true in establishing identities, and in delienating one’s community (culturally, racially, ethnically). Thus, identity representation becomes a complex, if not impossible enterprise fraught with the crisscrossing and weaving of discourses of sex, gender, nations, class, etc. Put in simple terms, the idea of the exotic is perspectival. We have different notions of the exotic – of that which is the “other.” Growing up in the province for example, stuff like burgers and donuts, and others are considered exotic – different – binary categorizations and all.

Thus, on a recent trip to Manila, I have been treated to different fares that were considered exotic from a urban dweller’s perspective. Ironically, what is presented to me are usual fares one finds in the province: fried hito, green mangoes, longganisa, sinigang, etc. – common, albeit presented with interesting and delicious twists. Fely J’s in Greenbelt 5 for example. My good friend (and brother from another mother) Garvic, and his wife, Ruby took me there. Fely J’s boast of serving the best Filipino dishes, and their menu is an array of traditional and usual Filipino fare, but served with a twist. We were hungry and didn’t care about the philosophical underpinnings of the restaurant. We just wanted food – as soon as possible, and plenty of it.

We proceeded to demolish an array of “exotic” food – kare kare, sisig, sinigang (here comes the twist) salmon fish head. It was decidedly delicious. While the kare kare that I’ve tasted in the province were also delicious, no one there would put it in a ceramic bowl that cost an arm and a leg. It had the right texture, the delicate interplay of the strong flavors of the ox tail, tripe, the peanuty sauce, and the shrimp paste (aka alamang) was exquisite. It hinted at the flavors of rural paradise nostagically recalled by those who had never lived there. The sisig was served in disappointingly small amount, but however meager the serving was, it had the tenderness and the flavor of the sisig you find on roadside eateries in Pampanga. We ordered buko juice for drinks. Now, I live in a house that has coconut trees right in front of it, and where one can have buko juice anytime, but there was a hint of decadence being served P90 glass of the ambrosial drink. The piece-de-resistance was the sinigang salmon. The pink flesh of the salmon was bursting with flavor, the sour soup as perfect foil to the oily richness of the fish. While the vegetables that came with the sinigang was a bit overcooked, it held with integrity this usually common but delicious quintessential Filipino dish.

The next day, a group of friends gathered for an Independence Day lunch. Café Juanita, featured in Time Magazine (why it was feature, presumably, was because of its excellent food, among others), also presented its own version of the exotic. While Fely J’s had the generic look of a fine restaurant, Café Juanita boast of a bohemian, rustic ambiance. It had beautiful wood paneling, an eclectic collection of, well, collectible knick knacks. I think they were going for an “Old Manila” look. There was a surfeit of lace, glittery chandeliers and bells (to summon the waitstaff?). The decorative items can be bought by guests, or so I am told. I liked the quirky, almost whimsical décor.

Our host, Benjo, chose our lunch fare: tom yum goong, dalag and green mango salad, deep fried lapu lapu fillet with I-don’t-remember-what sauce, bagnet and, kare-kare. It was a good combination, the makings of a great lunch. The dalag and green mango salad was a surprise – made of common enough ingredients (that is if you live, say, in Tacurong, Sultan Kudarat), but it was presented in a such a novel way it looked and tasted really well. The dalag was processed and fried to a crisp –almost lace-like shroud that covered the shredded green mangoes. The contrast with the crispy dalag and the sourness of the green mangoes was something I enjoyed, and helped myself to several servings. The tom yum was the right kind of sourness, but was a bit mild. I wished it was spicier just like the ones I tasted in the streets of Bangkok. Fely J’s kare kare was still fresh in my mind, and taste buds, so I was able to compare with relative authority. I find Café Juanita’s version better. The sauce was flavored and colored with atsuete, and the peanut complemented well with the beef. The bagnet was crispy, and lightly drizzled with olive oil and was on a bed of tomatoes and onion – the guilt over eating pork was balanced by the vitamin-rich garnish.

The conversation turned to the places we have visited, and how we enjoy “going home” – the ephemeral idea of our places of origin and where we belong. We laugh at how sometimes people from home are puzzled over our interest in places that were commonplace for them. “Why? It’s just an ordinary place,” they would say. I recalled how I took photographs of interesting scenes I saw at one place, and how my host who was that from place laughed and wondered why I took those pictures. “These are ordinary places and sceneries!” she exclaimed -which proves my point about the exotic. While as a young boy I pined for exotic donuts and burgers, others might have a different idea of what makes something exciting – exotic.

The Colors and Tastes of Lake Sebu

2010-05-06T22:04:00.009+08:00

This is taken from this site: My Town

It's a new travel blog written from a different angle. A group of friends (including me), accidental tourists, accidental adventurers and sometimes simply the accident-prone write about what's unique about their home town and the places they have been to. Please check it out!

The Colors and Tastes of Lake Sebu

The word “verdant” must have been invented with the greenery of Lake Sebu in mind. You get a glimpse of what printed words can only hint at. Lake Sebu, approximately 1000 meters above sea level is surrounded by rainforests, and hills that seem to undulate and beckon. It is actually an extinct volcano and the crater has turned into the lake. The gentle slopes of the hills that lead to it and the highway are ribbons that seem to unravel and reveal a gift of rare splendor. The pewter-colored skies were dark and foreboding, but it did not diminish the excitement of the trip, nor the beauty that was all around us. Everything breathed of life. The earth smelled of life, and from out of it bursts plants whose foliage is of an unbelievable shade of green. Primeval, elemental, the rainforests embrace the whole geography with a possessiveness that is daunting but also inviting at the same time. From our vantage point, we get a glimpse of enchantment and promise.

Soon enough we arrive. It is less than thirty minutes’ drive from Surallah, South Cotabato. From the road, we finally see it: Lake Sebu. The famed lake straddles the valleys like a demigod reigning with effortless grace and beauty. The wind that came in gentle waves was crisp and chilly. There is a silence that is restful and yet you feel an elemental throbbing in the air. The air smelled of earth, rain and if colors have a smell, this is how green would smell like. Soon, big dollops of rain drops began to fall, shrouding the lake in magic, harking back to days of ancient warriors in their colorful attires, and the bangles of mountain women accompanies the dance of victory.

Punta Isla, the resort, was festooned with colorful array of banners and traditional T’boli weaving. The atmosphere was festive as the smiles of the wait staff greeted us – they seem genuinely happy to see you, and seemed honored that you came to spend time with them. One can hear the beating of gongs and the rhythmic strum of the hegalong (traditional T’boli stringed instrument). The music was a perfect backdrop to the cultural and culinary discovery we were about to indulge. Women in traditional T’boli costumes were colorful and charming. They dance for the guests, I am told, but that afternoon, it was raining hard. I would have to wait for my next visit to see their dance.

We decided to go to Lake Sebu on a whim - a group of friends who have not seen each other for a while. We arrived around 2pm, and were quickly shown to a hut on the edge of the lake. The late lunch with friends was delicious. Tilapia is the focal point of lunch, and aside from its beauty, this is also what Lake Sebu is famous for. Variations of tilapia dishes were brought to us: crispy tilapia skin chicharon, kinilaw, sugba, paksiw. The rice was encased in a bamboo tube that lent its flavor to the hot steaming rice. It was delicious.

The kinilaw was a discovery. A kinilaw aficionado, I’ve never tasted fresh water fish served as kilaw before, but I was soon a convert. It was tangy, the ginger, the chili peppers and the onions lent themselves well to the unique taste of fresh tilapia without overpowering the subtle flavors of the fish. If Lake Sebu was verdantly green, the tilapia chicharon was golden, crispy and tasty. Dipped in spicy vinegar, it was a burst of astonishing delight. The paksiw was actually made of the skeletal remains of the fish after the flesh was filleted. I don’t care too much for paksiw, but I gave it a try, and found that I liked it. But the piece de resistance was the sugba.

The tilapia is tossed in a sheet of galvanized iron made red hot by open flame. With minimal addition for flavor (just salt), it is seared quickly. The sizzle and the air perfumed with the cooking tilapia have a direct, almost primal effect to one’s stomach. You salivate; you anticipate the gustatory gift that is soon to be served. The fish is juicy and sweetish. Done this way, the fish is not overcooked or dry. So often many people commit heinous acts of overcooking when making sugba, and all that is left is some bitter, blackened lumps of coal instead of juicy, voluptuous fish. I think what lent the flavors its unique taste is the freshness of the fish. To think that just a few minutes ago they were swimming in the rich, mineral laden waters of the lake.

I hear there are grand plans to make Lake Sebu the tourist destination that it is already becoming. Zip lines are being put up along the equally famous seven falls around Lake Sebu. Resorts, hotels and others are beginning to sprout like wild mushrooms. I dread the day when I return and find the lake becoming a tacky tourist trap. But I hope not. I hope that the officials will be discerning enough to be careful and not spoil the pristine beauty of this mountain, for it will be a loss of tragic proportion when that day comes. In the meantime, we have finished the huge lunch that was served. The rains have stopped, and the raucous laughter among friends have stilled for a moment, savoring the silence and the cool breeze. We were happy.

Compassion: An Excerpt

2010-04-26T10:27:00.001+08:00

Here's another excerpt from the book I am working on. It is getting there. I would appreciate your feedback. :-D

And seeing the multitudes, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed, and downcast like sheep without a shepherd. Then He said to His disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Therefore, beseech the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into His harvest.”
Matthew 9:36-37

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Picture with me the flurry of activities that marked the earthly ministry of Jesus. Matthew 9 is a good place to start. Notice his actions: he healed a paralytic; he dined with tax-gatherers and sinners; he raised a dead girl; he gave sight to two blind men; he exorcised a demon-possessed man. The nitty gritty ministry of Jesus involved the downtrodden, the outcasts, and the filth: it was a ministry that met the needs from a thousand different points. The narrative intensifies. Verse 35 tells us, “And Jesus was going about all the cities and the villages, teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the gospel of the Kingdom, and healing every kind of disease and every kind of sickness.” Quite a day for a man on a mission for God! Did you sense the absorbing vigor of Jesus’ activities? The Divine reaching in the midst of the heady stench of human drama, the Glorious One among the wretched.

Why would Jesus go to such lengths? Why would Jesus reach out and talk to sinners, heal paralytics, raise dead girls to life, and even cast out demons? While the compelling reason is to declare the Kingdom of God, there is a deeper inspiration that kept Jesus going. “He felt compassion for them,” our Scripture tells us. Jesus deeply felt for the people around Him, and this was what motivated Him.

Compassion. If mission is the heartbeat of God, then compassion keeps it beating.

Jesus felt the needs and the desperation of the people crowding in on him – each wanting a touch, a word, a little piece of Him. They were distressed. They were downcast – like sheep without shepherd. And so Jesus gave – His power, His wisdom, Himself. It was compassion that drove Him to reach out. It took Him from place to place, and to make Himself available. Jesus saw these needy people – too many of them. He was lead to state an enigmatic declaration. “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Therefore beseech the Lord of the harvest to send out workers into His harvest.”

When Jesus saw the multitude, He was moved by their situation. Compassion does that. Compassion allows us to feel the needs of others. Compassion is the ability to identify with those who are careworn, and troubled. Compassion is the ability to feel with such deep emotion others around you. It is the deep awareness of the suffering of another coupled with the wish to relieve it.

But what did Jesus mean when He saw the difficulty of the people and declared that there is a field ready for the harvest? In a departure from the traditional interpretation, allow me to offer an alternative reading. Jesus did not look at the plight of the harassed and the needy and considered them “harvest.” How can a helpless, beleaguered people be considered abundance? Doesn’t harvest speak of provision and comfort? Here Jesus offers Himself as the harvest. He is the field ready for the harvest – the source of provision for a needy people, the protection for those who are harassed, and the comfort for the afflicted. In an act fitting the Prince of Peace, and Counselor, Jesus selflessly offers Himself as the field ready for the people. It is as if He is saying, “I am here – I am food. I am comfort. I am healing. Bring me to the people who need and who cry out for relief.”

As the field teeming with ripe provision, Jesus is saying He is ready to be harvested and distributed to those who go hungry in the night. He is the golden stalks of grain warm and full. He is the Bread of Life. He is water from the well deeper than anyone realized. He will fill our storehouses to the brim. He is the food and the water that will satisfy and quench our hunger for righteousness. Compassion lead him to action, not just a helpless wringing of hands in the midst of the drought and famine.

He offers Himself. “I am harvest. Bring me to the people,” He challenges us, recipients of His provisions, we who are satisfied by the Compassionate One. Therefore, every act of mission, and evangelism is an act of compassion – not of “bringing in the sheaves, “ as a revered old hymn would put it, but rather it is the bringing of the much-needed relief and comfort from the very source Himself – the Lord of the harvest- to those who desperately need Him.

It was compassion that made Jesus go to be with the people. It was compassion that drove him to stay and be with them. It was compassion that compelled Him to offer Himself as the harvest, the answer to the deepest longing of a people who have gone too long without comfort, to a people who have felt the pangs of need for the longest time.

Dreams

2010-04-20T13:04:00.008+08:00

It was a long shot, but had been worth exploring...I did it anyway...

You can pour your soul out singing
A song you believe in
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang
Sing it anyway
Yea, sing it anyway
Yeah, yeah!

I sing
I dream
I love anyway

Simplicity: An Excerpt

2010-02-14T12:26:00.000+08:00

Here's an excerpt from a chapter of a little book I am working on(tentative title: Simple Virtues: Cultivating a Life of Greater Meaning and Deeper Spirituality). This is unedited, unfinished. I would like your comments, observations and suggestions. Is there a future in this project? Would you buy a copy of the book (even if i didn't force you hehehe)? Hopefully I will be able to finish the entire manuscript soon...

Simplicity

"One thing I ask of the Lord, this is what I seek;
That I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life…”
Psalm 27: 4

Nasidman Island is just a few kilometers off the shores of the small town of Ajuy in the province of Iloilo. The small island had no redeeming feature except for a lonely lighthouse set on a rocky terrain facing the inscrutable Pacific ocean. It is forlorn, and eloquently sad – like a crystal goblet mired in mud. There was no electricity in that island. There was no potable water also. Drinking, and even bathing water had to be brought from the town in the mainland. It was in this island that the churches in Iloilo and Bacolod decided to have their youth camp – of all places.

I was doing my internship in one of the city churches there as required by my seminary training, and part of my duty was to accompany a bunch of teenagers to this camp. The sweltering summer season was at its height when we went there. I promptly fell sick a day after we got to the island. Some pestilential virus left me weak and cranky. So not only was there no electricity, no water, the heat was just too much, I was also battling with virus. I couldn’t wait until the camp was over.

Except one time, at dusk we worshipped. The sun was just setting; the red glow from the horizon was like dying coal. There were no microphones, no electric musical instruments, just the pure voices of the young people. We were singing in a capella. I was communing with God. Rather, I was complaining to God. “Why am I here?” I asked God. This was not some angst-driven existential question I was asking, mind you. I was simply bemoaning the fact that I could have been comfortably sitting in the office of the church, trying to do His will while magnanimously enduring the quiet hum of the air conditioner, instead of being hot, sick and miserable. Then all of a sudden, from somewhere (it was getting dark. I couldn’t see who play) came the voice of a recorder.

The notes were simple and unsophisticated, but it was absolutely beautiful. It was a love song, it was a lament. It was both a celebration and mourning. It was pure notes of laughter; it was crystalline drops of tears. While that recorder rose above the voices of the kids, something began to take place. Something began to happen to this unlikely place. It became beautiful. The heat, the sharp stones, the uncomfortable bed didn’t sound or feel as bad anymore. I was lifted up from the wretched place, and truly worshipped the Lord. I vowed then to learn to play the recorder, if only to recapture that moment when the Lord made Himself manifest. I, who had no musical talent whatsoever, vowed I would learn to play the recorder. And so, as soon as I could afford it, I got one, taught myself to play, and go back to that place when God was near.

Did the recorder really sound that beautiful? Or, would it have sounded the way it did if there were amplified music, and sound systems were working? I guess no one would have noticed it, nor appreciated it. And yet, because and not in spite of the utter lack of sophistication that it is beautiful. We crave for the spectacular. The vividness of its beauty, the genius of thought, and the flowing, graceful movements allows us to be transported somewhere transcendent. These brilliant splashes of color transform our mundane world into something both magical and enchanting. And so we treasure these special times.

But life is not a series of intense delights. More often, life is simple – mundane – ordinary. We have our routines. We have our rhythms. We think that the muted colors of the ordinary do not cause us to celebrate. But to hear the subtle rhythms of simplicity is as magical as star bursts of luminosity. The ordinary can bring joy. Laughter, work, commuting, doing your grocery – simple, regular activities – these too can be avenues for the mystical, for the transcendent. These can be occasions for a deeper understanding of self, or our soul, of He who is above ordinary. Let us learn to be fluent in the subdued language and whisperings of our ordinary life, of the path of simplicity – for at the very heart of it, at its core, when all is stripped and all is laid bare, we find the most brilliant of all: Him.

This takes a radical change of perspective. We will need a different way of seeing things. The pure notes of that recorder will not be as haunting is if the air was filled with artificial noise of amplified instruments and electric sound systems. The noise and the complications of this world will drown the tender and silent beauties that are around us. And thus, to truly appreciate God, and all that is His handiwork, we must learn to focus, and trim the details that most often superfluous and unneeded.

But not only that, we must learn to consider the things we do not have as well. We need to settle the aspect of how we look at the things we crave and yet do not have. Can we appreciate our very condition of need, and show joy and even gratefulness for the things we do not have? I do not mean giving thanks in spite of lack, but to give thanks because we do not own or possess material things. For this is the essence of simplicity: to let go of clutter and to appreciate that which we do have.

Simplicity as Choice

In some cultures, the notion of simplicity is letting go of material excess. For example, among the rich and the sophisticated, minimalism (which is the fancier term for being simple) is something of a choice- exciting in fact, for those who are used to extravagance. And so, books upon books, talks upon talks encourage and advocate the voluntary giving up of these clutters. There is wisdom in that. I think it is always a good idea to keep wanton materialism in check, and advocates of simplicity espouse freedom from things that can make you addicted, or from a lifestyle is overcome with the desire to have more, and be more. Some would advise, for example, to give away things that just cram closets and deliberately live simpler by buying smaller cars, or simpler homes, or plainer clothes and others. The ultimate purpose is to be able to breathe and be free from the slavery of consumerism and materialism.

However, many of us do not choose simplicity as a guiding principle for our lives, because for the most part it is the only way. Many of us have grown up with so little in life, and we have learned to make do with such meager resources. Most often, our homes and our lifestyles are marked by sparseness and plainness. We find people who live simply, who live without abundance or opulence- not because they have chosen to be simple, but simply because there was really no other way to live.
The compelling question, therefore, is: in our search for authentic simplicity, what path do we choose? What if there is no choice, for we are forced by our circumstances to be simple? Can we still call it simplicity? Where is the virtue in that?

The Core of Simplicity

The best way to describe simplicity and understand what it means is to look at the ultimate model and source of simplicity, Jesus Christ. From him we get a clue as to what the concept implies. This will lead us to the answer to our quest for authentic simplicity.

The lifestyle of Jesus – a life spent traveling, teaching, preaching, and being with people is not simplistic. Rather it is deep and can sometimes be filled with paradoxes and ironies both blatant and subtle. And yet the quietness that seems to come off him in spite the mad scrambling and complications about him is an oasis. Jesus’ life is marked with a simplicity that is neither severity, nor frugality, but one that is innocent and down to earth. It wasn’t miserly, or dour. It is a simplicity that is more like an outflow of an inner condition, and whose effect is like a cold drink on a scorching day.

For Jesus, simplicity certainly involves a letting go – just as He had stripped himself of the glories of heaven. Material possessions rank lowest in his priorities. He lived simply, and existed on meager means. If He, who is the owner of all things and from all things come from, did not consider them of utmost importance, then perhaps we need to heed His repeated and often direct instructions on money, possession and ownership. This is an ancient and venerable wisdom. So the contemporary heed to let go of material excesses and to deliberately prune one’s lifestyle is a valid, Scriptural, and yes, virtuous endeavor.

The Motivation for Simplicity

There is a far more compelling reason and expression of simplicity than just down play the significance of worldly possessions. Simplicity isn’t just some fundamental suspicion of the material world. Something deep and powerful must be at work here. For the very act of the sacrifices of Jesus, while it certainly entailed a life trimmed of excesses, was motivated by a force that was compelling and undeniable. His very statement reveals it. He has come to fulfill the will of the Father. His life is defined by this purpose, and it is this purpose that has shaped His way of life, his choices, his activities, and his simplicity.

Anything that might lead Him to stray, he will take off. Anything that gets in the way, it should be removed. The choice was clear cut. It was simple: be in the business of glorifying God. If something does not, or if something hinders it, then have nothing to do with it. No one can serve two masters, Jesus warns. Either he will love one or hate the other. Simplicity allows us to make the better choice, and to live that choice by deliberately giving up that which will hinder or stop us from this one thing we have been called to do.

Not only that, simplicity allows you to focus on who is truly worth the effort. Jesus lead a clutter-free life, not just because he was hostile to the world, but because He wants to enjoy and know the Father who sometimes speak in a small still voice. Simplicity allowed Him to center His life and ministry to that which is significant. It is because He has chosen to let go of the less important so that He can focus on the most important, the will of God.

This simplicity is also reflected in Paul’s powerful statement, “One thing I do –forgetting what is behind, and

But simplicity is more than just the giving up of worldly excesses. As I have said earlier, there are those who live a simple life, not out of choice, but of necessity. Poverty, and material want has solved the problem of choice for us. The virtue of simplicity goes deeper than just the absence of unwanted complications. Striving for a simple life is not without its complications. Simplicity does not mean separation or turning blind eyes toward a world crying out for our involvement and our attention. As we attune ourselves and focus to that which is the one thing in our lives – the pursuit of Christlikeness, we find ourselves sensitive to the world around us. Our simplicity is not some self-indulgent habit that separates us from the hustle and the bustle of life. We become attune to the cries, pains and suffering of this world. We become aware of the world around us, and we are aroused from our world of oblivion to the world of distress and misery.

Simplicity is a choice to live more deliberately. Those who have chosen the path of simplicity do away with the unessential for they have in their hearts that which is truly essential. Simplicity at its heart is the intentionality of our being. The mystics has a term in Latin that best describes this – “in simplitate cordis.” Simplicity of heart. The notion speaks of singleness of heart – of a life that is centered on Him. It depicts a life unfettered by of all that is unessential and trivial. A simple heart is a life increasingly focused on one thing: seeking Christ.

And it is to those who have decided to live simple lives for Christ that secrets of the Kingdom are entrusted. Brennan Manning once said, “"Leadership in the church is not entrusted to successful fund-raisers, brilliant biblical scholars, administrative geniuses, or spellbinding preachers (though these assets may be helpful), but to those who have been laid waste by a consuming passion for Christ–passionate men and women for whom privilege and power are trivial compared to knowing and loving Jesus.”

Two Poems

2010-02-05T22:28:00.004+08:00

Cityscape (City Escape)

I go to a secret place and behold
the panoramic vista of the city
and from this vantage point, I see
sights to marvel, lives to wonder
and where the Delphic steam rises,
vanishing the terrible thoughts
and even if the future is yet uncertain
I succumb to its quiescent embrace

Moments

The moments are gone
Drifted away like mists
The fire from the oracle has gone cold,
And the windows to the balcony
Is shuttered, as if blind.

The conversations have stilled,
And the words that shall remain unspoken
Are heavy stones that weigh down,
And dusk shall come, the bright orange sun
Is a dying ember that shall bring darkness.

They pass – the moments.
No more shall there be sparks that ignite
And the bitter, acrid smoke shall overcome
But they are just moments-
The laughter, the limpid pools –unmourned.

Like mists drifted away,
Like embers dying
Like stones that weigh heavily,
The moments are gone.
I shall not mourn their passing.

My Father's House

2010-01-22T12:50:00.010+08:00

The gate my dad made himself. It took him two years to finish this work.

The house that my father built – the house where I grew up in – is aging. More than thirty years old now, I have seen this house being built. It is a sprawling house; it is designed and built by my dad. Its line and shape is typical of my father’s design (he was a building contractor) – linear, plain, and almost austere. The rooms are built in precise geometrical patterns. Knowing that my dad has a sharp eye for details, nothing has been left to happenstance. You can sense that the windows, the doors, the walls were built in an exacting measurement. The door, or windows must be a certain size, and a certain distance. I have loved these lines, the strict adherence to symmetry. As a little boy, I would pretend I was blind, and I would grope around the rooms, and I would count my steps to find a particular room, for example. I noticed that rooms were equally spaced, and a certain number of steps would bring me to my sister’s bedroom, or my parent’s room. There was constancy and comfort in their cadence and rhythm, much like a Zen mantra.

The wide door has rich, intricate details - fine workmanship that is no longer made these days.

The furniture was also designed/built by my dad. At one time, he was a furniture maker, and I am sure these were built in his shop. The furniture is made of heavy, hard wood (mostly narra). They were sleek, linear pieces that are minimalist in their design. The beds we sleep in was carefully measured and crafted. The beds can fit any bedroom since they were built with these room sizes in mind. The living room set is characterized by straight, angular lines. There are almost no curves, or unwanted details. They are like Lego sets – when you mix and match them, or rearrange them, they will harmonize into rectangles or squares. And they are timeless in their design. One would think that these were contemporary pieces for a minimalist home. Today, they do not look dated, or old. A change in upholstery, perhaps, and they would look like they were taken out of a current issue of Architectural Digest.

Original, sturdy, and elegant, this living room set is designed by my dad.

I do not know where this sense of design has come from. While they were almost plain, they were never severe, or unbeautiful. The rich, warm color of narra, the dull sheen it emanates, and the smooth texture of these pieces make for an elegant and warm feel. Thinking about it now, I realize they are a reflection of my dad’s personality. No-nonsense, exacting, and distinct, my dad lived his life the way he wanted it – minimal fanfare, no frills. Growing up poor, the economical design seems to appeal to him. There are no details that are extraneous; there were no lines that were wasted. In their economy however, they lend certain sophistication.

Detail from the buffet table made from my father's woodwork shop.

But as you go about the finer points of the house, you begin to notice a few things. While the shapes are severe, and exacting, there are enough details to break the plainness of straight lines and angles. There are sworls, and curves, and arabesques that delight and surprise. The main entrance door while huge and angular, has bas relief carvings of intricate design. It is elaborate, and finely done. It is a kind of craftsmanship that is no longer found these days. It is a labor of strict adherence to quality and fine details. The dining table is a rectangle of narra that can seat eight, in-laid with parquet-like design of wood tiles. This is matched with chairs that are high-backed and carved with the same intricate patterns of the entrance door. The harsh lines of the dining table are broken by the curved and intricately carved top of the dining chairs that is upholstered with red checked fabric. The Zen-like minimalism of the living room furniture is enhanced by the Italian porcelain my mother chose. The room is defined by a red and gold Persian carpet that has elaborate floral design. These delicate, intricate pieces lend certain softness to the severity of the room. Surprisingly, these details do not clash, nor do they contradict each other. They, in fact, harmonize and cohere as a whole to make for a pleasant look.

My father had lived a full life. In the various reinventions of himself, he had been an artist, teacher, furniture maker, building contractor, businessman, and a politician (having served as a public servant in different offices). My father, while strict and exacting, is also characterized by tenderness and kindness, and humor. Warm and outgoing, I would wake up early in the morning to the ringing of his laughter. Because he was a politician, we would always have guests in the house, and he is at his best form talking, laughing, and being with them. While at times austere, he is also inexplicably extravagant. He would shower my mom with expensive gifts. I remember accompanying him as he meticulously chose and bought pearls for my mom, and other pieces of jewelry. He was always welcome and was known by the sales staff at various shops as he would choose and buy clothes for my mom. Himself a fastidious dresser, his clothes are elegant and stylish. Never loud, he cut a dashing figure in his heyday. Whenever he liked a certain cut, or a certain brand, he would buy multiple pieces of the same clothing, perhaps in different colors.

As a husband, he is warm, romantic and affectionate. He would hold hands with my mother whenever they are together. He was most happy when he would go out with my mom. He married late in life, and seemed to have made up for lost time by the joy and love he showered his family. As a father, while he expected the best from us, he is also generous and supportive. These are details I see in my father - intricate, rich, sometimes contradictory, but always delightful .

The house my father built is old now. It is fading, decaying, and falling apart in some parts. It is a house that is a ramshackle testimony of our family’s various enterprises: flourishes and dashes that are proofs of bursts of exuberance and optimism long overtaken by the realities of tragedies and broken hearts. It has taken on the patina of past decades; the rough and unfinished places became charming features that lent character and history. It is home for us. It is the place we seek refuge whenever the storms of life would get too much. Whenever my siblings and myself feel the need to unwind, and be ourselves, we seek our home. This is the place where we gather, and be strengthened, because we know our father will be there, because he is our home.

My dad and my siblings...on a rare occasion where all of us have gathered in the house my father built.

A New Life

2009-12-22T21:00:00.002+08:00

For PT, and to all who are and have always been friends

This is where dreams die: career, reputation, integrity, passion. This is the place where these are buried: lost loves, fond dreams, and even friendships.

Truth of the matter is, things come to an end. Things die. For a time they were ours. God has given them to us, and while we have tried to be faithful to Him, and be a good steward, sometimes they are taken away – by inadvertence, by neglect, by sheer folly, or perhaps as a result of carelessness by self, and others. Sometimes, by no fault of our own, we sometimes become collateral damage, or perhaps as a direct result of our own choices, we see all of these we hold dear crumble and shatter to pieces.

And we let go of them, sometimes willingly, most often begrudgingly. But we let them go just the same, for they were never ours in the first place. We realize there is no holding on, there is no going back. And we reel with the loss we have just endured, knowing that there is no getting back what we have released.

This is a time for mourning. This is a time for farewells, for letting go. Undoubtedly this is a heart-wrenching process. We wish life will return as it was. We wish we could have fought for it more, or sometimes we wished people we know, and trust could have fought for us, but these are all wishful thinking. We wish things can be the same again. But it cannot.

And so we weep sometimes seemingly inconsolably. Grief overtakes us, and we find ourselves immersed in tears, regret and pain. Stunned with the hurt that has beset us, we stay up to the wee hours of the night thinking of what could-have-beens, what-should-have-beens, but we know that this is a one-way street to nowhere.

And so we come to this place: to bury, to mourn, to let go.

We look up to the only Wise God we know, and beseech Him for understanding – for respite, for mercy and grace. We look up to Him who suffered, died and lived again – for in Him there is a promise of a new day, a new life, of new beginnings. For in Him there is a promise of redemption even as the whole world groan in anticipation of that bright hope.

We Once Had A Farm

2009-08-09T22:07:00.001+08:00

We once had an orchard – a five-hectare property planted with mangoes, tamarind,guavas and pomelo trees. I loved that place, its leafy canopy shaded the contours of the area, and where the smell is the smell of life, and the earth. The gently rolling hill was a cradle that held childhood memories o f Christmas parties, games and idyllic frolic. I have loved the gently leaning shack of the tenants who lived there. The scent of ripening mangoes would perfume my recollection of this place.

I remember hiking on weekends with childhood friends. My friends and myself would have barbeque and would spend the day there – losing ourselves in boyhood games, and imagination. It was a place of childhood frolic and fun. I would point out to them our carabaos – Assemblyman and Doktora (named after my dad and mom) and their daughter, Gangga (named after my eldest sister). My mom got the scare of her life when our tenant reported that Gangga was bitten by a snake (thinking that our tenant was talking about my sister. She then realized that the actual Gangga was at school in Cebu).

My father began to construct a rest house there. I always thought that it would be perfect to live there. In my young boy’s mind, I was already envisioning days spent in bliss, the silence of the hills broken by the gentle rustle of leaves, and the soft calls of the carabaos. Once I fancied myself an artist, and this farm could be where my studio would be – finding inspiration here, and creating things of beauty, very much like the place where all these will be created. Childhood was filled with grand plans for a precarious future.

Somehow, the intervening events prevented these plans. We were sent to Cebu to go to school. I only rarely got to see this farm. Soon caught up in the turmoil of teenage angst, and preoccupation, the farm, while rarely visited, became a backdrop to our lives. It was a place in the distance; a primeval place abandoned but always longed for.

And then my mother got sick. The farm became a place of comfort for her. She would go to this farm and find whatever solace she could in its peaceful refuge. The cool breeze and the silence would comfort her. The flowering mango trees, and the slowly ripening pomelos seem to hold a promise of continuity and time – extravagance that my mother realized were no longer hers. When she passed away, we had her buried in a spot that overlooks the gently rolling hills. It was her favourite place. From that vantage point, you can see the rice field. In his grief, my father built a chapel to house my mother’s tomb. He would spend many days there, finding consolation in the rich atmosphere of the farm.

We have lost this farm in a series of uncalculated moves and as a result of naive dash of optimism, a casualty of poor financial planning perhaps. But the circumstances went so fast we did not have time to mourn the loss of this place. I was already here in Baguio when it finally happened. But distance was not too far as the news reached me with surprising ache. I can only imagine the pain my father felt as the thought of losing that precious place would mean. My elder sister, filled with nameless hurts, suffered at the idea that we cannot hold on to that place. While my younger siblings were too busy to making a career for themselves on another island, I am sure they too felt the loss of an important place – a place of mythical and iconic significance for all of us – marking the end of an era, an end to a life we once had. I have not estimated the amount of loss we have incurred – not just financially, but more importantly, emotionally, but I am sure, it is a loss whose significance will haunt us in unexpected moments.

There will no longer a place to visit whenever the fevers of life become too much. At some future day, I will no longer be able to bring my children to a place, and say, “This is where I have spent my days as a boy,” or point them to the spot where my mother is buried, and say, “That’s where your lola is buried. She was a great woman, and I am sad you did not meet her or got to know her.”

There was a tinge of sadness in my father’s voice when he told me that someone has already bought the property, and that we have to move my mother’s bones to the family plot in Davao. On other days, or in my previous life, I would have railed and ranted at the misfortune – but there was a quiet resignation in me that day. I felt sad. I will mourn the loss of this place for I don't know how long – but life must go on.

Pop, or is Carlos J. Caparas an Artist?

2009-07-30T22:25:00.002+08:00

Pop. Kitsch. In tagalog, masa, bakya, baduy. And when these words are said, it is always accompanied by a derisive tone, as if talking about something distateful, something offensive. And for some, pop, or popular is something unacceptable. Never mind if the vast majority love it- music, movies, literature. If it is branded as pop, then it tolls its own cultural demise as something insignificant.

Popular culture, also known as mass culture or kitsch (German for mass or common), is generally looked down upon as vulgar, shallow, and worthless. Popular culture is often characterized as exploitative and is created solely for profit. Popular culture is described as a cancerous growth on high culture that takes advantage of fully matured cultural tradition, extracting its riches and putting nothing back. Popular culture is proscribed controlling powers onto the passive susceptibility of the ignorant masses, to which decisions lie between consumption or no consumption. Popular culture integrates the masses in a form of debased high culture.*

Now the discussion over the validity of pop art, and or even the discussion on the definition of what makes art is taken to another dimension. Carlos J. Caparas, director of kitschy, campy movies with bad acting, writer of komiks, among others has just been proclaimed National Artist. According to the wikipedia feature on him, Caparas is is a Filipino comic strip creator/writer-turned director and producer, who is best known for creating Filipino superheroes and comic book characters such as Panday, Bakekang, Totoy Bato, Joaquin Bordado,Kamagong, Kamandag, Angela Markado, and Tasya Fantasya Gagambino, Ang huling lalaki ng baluarte, Pieta and Ang Babaeng Hinugot Sa Aking Tadyang and amongst others. He is also known as a director of numerous movies dealing with massacre such as Kuratong Baleleng and The Cory Quirino Kidnap: NBI Files. Quite a body of work.

I am sure there are cries of dismay and disgust at this unexpected turn of events. I asked a friend if Caparas' art- pop art, at the very least - is finally given legitimacy now that he is honored with such a title. He said, "Pop art is even too good to refer to his works. They have just demeaned the erstwhile lofty awards. And previous honorees will have less pride for their trophies!" He is not alone in his opinion, and certainly there is credence in his statement.

However, without going into the discussion on the development of the concept of "culture," and all that discussion on high culture versus low culture, I make the following observation:

Popular culture remains an integral part of society, and though suspicion may be justly cast upon it, popular culture as a possible description of society cannot altogether be dismissed. Popular culture becomes the resource available in constructing meaning, identity and habitable space, especially in a consumer society. Through pop culture, we sense the identity of the “faceless, nameless mass,” its soul even.

It may not suit the finer tastes of the cultured, perhaps. It may even be a sensory affront to some, but since when has it been the elitists' and the select few's responsibility to dictate the way one thinks, or appreciates art, no matter how pedestrian? Such arrogant imperialism should not only be subverted, or coopted, but radically opposed. The popular culture reflects the identity of the people, and to deny it is to deny their own personhood.

My question: Is there a universally recognized standard for art? Are the class-based judgments of quality universal as standard set of aesthetic criteria?

Admittedly, Caparas' work fails to make the grade when the finer aesthetical sensibilities are applied. But there is no denying too the mass appeal of his work, or even how his work has been ingrained in the popular imagination. Granted, the National Artist Award might be a huge step (deserving, or undeserving), and i am sure this will fodder for many discussions, but shouldn't we at least redefine once more our criteria or how we derive it?

Just asking :-)

*See Roxanne Howdle, Is High Culture Superior to Mass Culture: If So, Why?, internet; available from www.essaybank.co.uk/ search.cgi?LinkOrwne=roxanne_howdle; internet; accessed 28 August 2002. See also Colin MacCabe, The Eloquence of the Vulgar: Cinema and the Politics of Culture (London, England: British Film Institute, 1999); Jean Baudrillard, “A Conjuration of Imbeciles,” internet; available from www.uta.edu/english/apt/collab/texts/conjuration.htm; accessed 20 September 2002.

Photo Credits: http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view?back=http%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dpanday%2Bfpj%26rs%3D1%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-msgr%26fr2%3Dtab-web&w=144&h=114&imgurl=i34.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fd149%2Fishelu%2Fpandaylogo.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.freewebs.com%2Fpinoytv%2Fchaka.htm&size=11k&name=pandaylogo+jpg&p=panday+fpj&oid=767416ddb5f0dd6c&fr2=tab-web&no=16&tt=22&sigr=11980m6s4&sigi=11ln9mtah&sigb=1311cip5l

Hard Times

2009-07-09T22:22:00.003+08:00

We have fallen on hard times

When the only true currency we have left

Are memories of abundance soon to be forgotten,

Where even in our waking dreams

The ghosts of things past have cease their mad gyrations

And the stench of hogs scents our days, and haunts us.

The tattered remains of our treasures, the solitary coin in our pocket

Are all that is left of our squandered existence

Dire in our poverty, we have felt the sharpest pangs of hunger

But the tears can no longer flow

Dissipated, we are the hollow people.

It wasn’t always like this.

We were children of a King, nobles from a faraway kingdom

Barefoot, we make our way to a road we swore never to tread again

We rehearse our lines, aware of our diminishment

Who cares for a feast of fattened calf when a morsel will do?

Who cares for a robe and a ring when the simplest of garments will suffice?

Who cares for an embrace when a look of acknowledgement will be enough?

Kindness

2009-06-14T01:02:00.002+08:00

Kindness is a balm to a festering wound, a cup of cool water for a parched traveller, both unexpected and unasked. It is the soothing tone of voice you hear that comforts you from ragged fevers of life, the warm feel of a palm placed on your forehead. Kindness is a gift, a surprise to those who have been roughened by rudeness and apathy.

Rainy Season Reading List '09

2009-06-06T16:16:00.003+08:00

Torrents of rain came pouring down. A far cry from the searing heat and the bone dry air of the desert where I have just come from. Was the trip just a dream? At the end, memories are all that we have.

In memory of my recent trip to the Middle East, and with the word "arabesque" still echoing in my head, here are my rainy season reading list:

1. Naguib Mahfouz' Children of the Alley

2. Naguib Mahfouz' Karnak Cafe (highly recommended by the sales staff at the Virgin Store in Kuwait)

3. Amin Maalouf's Leo the African

4. Amin Maalouf's Ports of Call

5. Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls

6. Lauie Lisle's Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgian O'Keefe

7. Thomas Merton's Seeds of Destruction

8. Allison Fell's translation of The Pillow Boy of the Lady Onogoro

9. Frances Mayes' A Year in the World: Journeys of a Passionate Traveller

Frances Mayes wrote this: "What man can travel this long road and not fill his soul with crazy arabesques?"

Indeed.

2009-05-06T09:21:00.001+08:00

“You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others.” palm reader, Before Sunrise

So Listen...

2009-04-16T13:56:00.001+08:00

So, listen. There are things that grab of you, and sometimes, these things do not let go. It shapes you, it moulds you, it affects you in ways that are radical and dramatic, in ways that are subtle and gentle. But then, there is Him. He who lays hold you, and He changes you, and the core of your very being is never the same again. He is the breath of life itself; He is the freshness that blows in the dank, dark corners of your life. He is the cleansing you need; the traces of your harlotry and your rebellion are washed away.

So listen. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?

The Little Big Church Has Grown Bigger

2009-04-15T00:53:00.003+08:00

So, let me tell about some people I know:

Dan is a cool guy. He plays awesome music, but he also draws. He is an artist, and you see that the first you see him. But what keeps him going, and literally jumping for joy every time he leads worship is something deeper than affinity for upbeat music. He has found the meaning and purpose for his life, and this brings the smile in his eyes.

Mon is a boy scout. He is always well-dressed, always careful. He is a gentleman in the mold that is no longer made. He has a sense of “old world” charm about him. When he speaks, it is well-thought of and careful. But when he prays, and when he worships, he closes his eyes and he loses himself to a place only he and God meet.

And then there is this young lady whose name I do not know, but I see her every Sunday. She must be on her way to work whenever she attends the service. But before the busyness of her day overtake her, before the necessary and important details of her day needed to be tended to, she comes in here to catch a glimpse of her True North, and in that way she is never lost in the fevers of life.

These some of the people I meet Gateway Community Church, and these are some of the reasons why I love my church.

Worship is a primary activity for Gateway Community Church. In fact, worship is at the very core of what and who GCC is. Worship, obviously, is not limited to the church services conducted every Sunday. However, these worship services is a significant part of the life and spirituality of the body of Christ. These worship services are times of celebration, a time of rejoicing, a time to gather and partake of God’s Word, letting it influence, change and move us. It is a time to learn and to minister to one another, and most importantly, a time to praise and declare God, and what He is doing in our lives and in our life as the Body of Christ.

Gateway Community Church is composed of men and women whose lives have been transformed by the knowledge of and passion for Jesus Christ. This is the core of who and why we are gathered together as a body, as a community. The community is about needing to explore the dynamic life of the Christian faith, and to connect in a deeper way with God, recognizing that one is able to do that in the context of a circle of meaningful relationships. This community is about spiritual maturity, and ministry involvement, knowing that a sacred ingredient to the Christian’s life is active participation in the ministry. In an atmosphere of mutual encouragement, openness and authenticity, Gateway Community Church endeavours to express love, grace, hope and care for the broken world even as they recognize their own brokenness.

At Gateway, we are challenged to live our Christian lives in a fresh way. We do not want to be satisfied with just living a formula, or someone’s idea of the Christian life. There is an intense desire to bring meaning to our everyday lives, and make it count for His glory. But in order to that, we value authenticity, and sincerity. We come as we, knowing that to truly worship, to truly grow and to truly minister in the most effective way - we must look at our own selves and recognize that by the grace of God, we are what we are.

I have been part of this church just on the cusp of its growth, and now it is entering its seventh year. A lot has transpired, and there numerous unprecedented milestones since then. The last three years alone saw dramatic and important moves as the church continues to walk in the leading of the Holy Spirit. Zeal for evangelism has marked the community. Well-attended worship events that has so far expanded to three services every Sunday, and a dynamic mid-week service on Thursdays, and the various groups that meet throughout the week are just a few concrete ways I have seen the growing passion of this church.

And while it wasn’t a long time ago that I called this church “the little big church,” I feel that that title is no longer appropriate, for it is not so little anymore. It hasn’t lost yet the small church feel to it as the members remain as close to each other and as concerned with each other as before. However, there are more people coming in every week, and whenever I am away too long, I feel I needed to introduce myself to the kaleidoscope of people that come every Sunday. This is what I love about Gateway Community Church – it is a church where people from every walk of life is heartily welcomed, and taken in like a long lost friend.

The Artist of Faith

2009-03-28T09:06:00.003+08:00

An artist of faith - a real artist - may therefore cry: Listen, we have a myth that consoles and secures, one worthy of a lasting belief, one we can surely live by. It is "myth" insofar as it is the timeless, defining story by which we make sense of a senseless existence. But it is truth insofar as it happened. It is vaster than I am (says the artist). I did not create it; it created me. I may name it with my words; but it is the word which named me first: Jesus Christ the Righteous! But the artist of faith had better cry that in language as fine as that of the secular artist who sings of the abyss.

Colosians 1:15-20

by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

2009-03-09T23:10:00.001+08:00

We stole this fire together

Prometheus’ boon in our hands

And we ignite the flammable darkness

And the cobwebs of this dank place

Is consumed in a burst of brilliance

We saw the world before us

And we were astonished

By its beauty

By the sheer bravado and daring

Of its inhabitants

We were bowled over

By its vivacity, by its intricacy

The spectacle before us, illuminated

Sparkles with a vividness that is

Captivating, engrossing.

And yet

We were frightened

For an undercurrent of malice is at hand

A hint of unnamed evil lurks

In places even this fire cannot

Completely erase, drive out

We were perplexed,

For while beauty and transcendence exist

Ugliness and pain are its mirror images

And while kindness mark our days,

The blood of hapless victims cry out

And so we ask ourselves

Do we want to close our eyes,

And refuse to peer out into the darkness?

Shall we extinguish this fire?

Or shall we continue to hold it up high,

Until all see the light, and rejoice?

Benediction

2009-03-09T19:54:00.004+08:00

This moved me:

Benediction

Let us mourn till others are comforted

Weep till others laugh

Let us be sleepless till all can sleep

Untroubled.

Let us be frugal till all are filled

Let us give till all have received

Let us make no claim till all have

Had their due

Let us be slaves till are all free

Let us lay down our lives

Till all have life abundantly

Amen.

Words by Fr. John Herriot

From Arne Bergstrom’s Benediction

Thou

2009-03-07T22:50:00.003+08:00

You – ineffable, mysterious – You do not revel in darkness. You do not find pleasure in hiding, but your delight is in being found, of being known.

In You are the deepest inscrutabilities of the universe and the astounding truths so profound the grindings and the groaning of the very foundation of the earth is hushed, and yet, Your secret joys are in forging bonds with creatures You Yourself have created.

In You is a yearning so deep, so powerful it transcends boundaries – it crossed the gap between Creator and creature, and You have made Yourself manifest, immanent, with us. You have chosen to relate to us. You have initiated this love-relationship, and the questions of whether we are worthy enough, or if we have earned the right to call you friend are hushed in the tenderness of Your heart beat.

In You we find our fulfillment. You planted in our hearts “a secret thread, an ineffable suggestion, an attraction or longing, something you were born desiring and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, you are looking for, watching for, listening for,” and we find that in You. You are what we watch for, listen for, whether we have realized it or not.

Ashes by Ben Harpert, featuring Allison Krauss

2009-02-10T08:58:00.002+08:00

This song haunts me...
For S who i fear is on a path of greater destruction, and to his wife who is shattered beyond imagination...

Ben Harper Lyrics
Ashes Lyrics

1st Quarter Reading List 2009

2009-02-08T22:02:00.005+08:00

The list is a bit sparse. It’s almost the end of the school year. This means last minute paper works, deadlines and appointments. Arrgh!

1. Xiaolu Guo’s A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers

The novel is as witty as the title. Zhuang, or Z as she calls herself, is a keen observer of human life, and her recollection is both funny and poignant. A must-read!

2. Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair - An oldie but definitely a goldie. Considered one of Greene’s finest work (I am captivated by his restrained but passionate style) this is a moving and beautiful description of the depths and complexity of humanity, and love and its “crazy mutation of pity, hate, comradeship, jealousy, and contempt...”

3. Irish Murdoch’s Under the Net – a comic novel about work and love, wealth and fame.

4. John Kaiser’s The Monks of Tibhirine: Faith, Love, and Terror in Algeria –the recounting of the grisly event in 1996 when armed men broke into a Trappist monastery in war-torn Algeria and took seven monks hostage, pawns in a murky negotiation to free imprisoned terrorists. Two months later the monk’s severed heads were found in a tree; their bodies were never recovered.

5. Ian Morgan Cron’s Chasing Francis – written in the genre of wisdom literature, it weaves the story of a pastor who lost his faith and goes on a pilgrimage to get to know one of the most enigmatic and influential monks in history, St. Francis of Assisi.

6. Paul Theroux’s The Happy Isles of Oceania: Paddling the Pacific –Theroux’s travelogue through the islands in the Pacific

7. The Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature: An Anthology of Winning Works The 1980’s Poetry

8. The Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature: An Anthology of Winning Works The 1980’s Short Story

Rage for A Fallen Prophet

2009-02-06T21:27:00.004+08:00

"So it is that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don't know what part to give or maybe we don't like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always say, 'Sorry, we are just out of that part.'"

Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

Above anything else, there is anger. It is outrage in its heart-thumping, brain-numbing intensity. Anger for the stupid choices you have mad, anger towards the weakness of your being – anger towards you, for you who are gifted with the most of generous of souls made fatal mistakes one after another as you struggle in the trap of your own making. Screaming will not fully extinguish the molten lava of rage. I am angry at you.

Why are you so bent on self-destruction? Why do you act the way you act? What drives you to commit one random act of foolishness after another? I no longer have answers. I no longer have the confidence to say I know you, for you baffle me. And I am left with my frustration, my bewilderment, my anger.

I am angry at you – for you have wantonly squandered what anyone would die to have. Don’t you value them? Or do you consider yourself too valueless to have them? I am angry at you for you have thrown away in a fit of passion, in a misguided pursuit of escape: everything that you once hold dear, everyone who has ever loved you and whom you loved. Do you think you will be happier when you discard them, when you know that your demons are your own, and will continue to haunt you wherever and whomever you will end up with?

I am angry at you.

But this anger will fade. The boiling temperature of my wrath will subside. I know this. For I do not want to hold this anger within myself. I do not want to churn with bitterness and rancor. I will be rid of this anger. For I know too that anger is a lethal brew, and it is a cocktail I refuse to imbibe for too long.

And I know what will be left will be sadness. Eternal, poignant sadness. Sadness for the lost boy i see you in your eyes. Sadness that your mistakes will have consequences you have no way of anticipating. I fear that this only lead to destruction.

I will feel the loss of our friendship, and in quiet moments I will think of you, and will weep for you.

I will feel sad, for you will not find your happiness this way. And at the end of it all, I feel sad, for who will love you?

How Much of the Philippines You Have Visited?

2009-01-10T21:20:00.001+08:00

I learned my grade in Lakbayan is B- not a bad score, but something that I can improve on as i plan to do more travelling in the future!

I love the Philippines! Yay!

My Lakbayan grade is B-!

How much of the Philippines have you visited? Find out at Lakbayan!

Created by Eugene Villar.

Bong the Photographer

2009-01-07T19:32:00.003+08:00

Ha! New Year and embarking on a facet of me: Bong the Photographer.

Well, not an entirely new hobby, but one that i'm beginning to enjoy more and more...

So I've opened a flickr account just so there's a place i can show my work.

These images were taken from the various travels i've made.

What I Want to do in New York

2009-01-05T23:02:00.003+08:00

(well, aside from all the usual stuff of sightseeing,and experiencing New York) Attend this:

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While there might be a hint of a possibility that I might be able to go to New York this May, the cost of the conference put a damper on things...

Oh well...here's wishing...

Mirrors

2009-01-03T16:58:00.004+08:00

I am not a dualist in the strictest sense of the word, but there are experiences and longings that can only point to a world beyond us - a world our human angst can only hint at. A favorite mystic says it well:

Just as a mirror, which reflects all things, is set in its own container, so too the rational soul is placed in the fragile container of the body. In this way, the body is governed in its earthly life by the soul, and the soul contemplates heavenly things through faith.

HILDEGARD OF BINDEN, letter to the Monk Guibert, 1175

Rude Vicar

2008-12-30T16:07:00.001+08:00

This made me laugh. What's interesting is that both sides of the argument have some validity...hmmm....

My Pushkin New Year

2008-12-19T17:31:00.002+08:00

Inevitably, at the end of a year, we reflect on the what has passed, and of course think of what the future will bring.

Inevitably, my mind turns to the immortal genius of A.S. Pushkin...

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.

And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.

And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

Jose

2008-11-27T12:34:00.001+08:00

handsomest dudes in maui

More than anything it is the friendships and the bonding that made my four-week stay in Maui memorable. Admittedly, Maui is utterly beautiful – the beaches, the rain forests, the volcanoes made the island extraordinary, but what are these sights if you do not enjoy it with friends?

Jose Manuel Irizarry from Puerto Rico, my room mate, movie buddy, and seat mate, is a good guy. I enjoyed his company. While others were complaining about their room mates (nasty habits, poor hygiene, snoring, etc), I had no complaints (although I am not sure if he had any about me). Jose was the best room mate one can have. Though always quiet and smiling, but his wicked sense of humor always drives me into hysterical laughter. He likes to play pranks, and comes up with the funniest one-liners. You would also know he is a deep thinker as he comes up with amazing insights during class, or even in our late night conversations.

He is like an older brother I never had (although we are the same age). Nothing fazes him. Ever cool, he would take his time and go about his quiet ways. He is an engineer by trade, and also helps out in his church by assisting the pastor, his dad. He has a pretty wife whom he talks to almost constantly (as soon as break begins, and even after classes have begun), and three sons.

footwashing ceremony

I got to brush up on my rudimentary Spanish, and in return, he learned a few phrases in Tagalog (Ano ang pangalan mo? Work on it, Jose). He joined our group of pinoys who like to eat out, laugh out loud and to go on trips. Nathan, one our buddies, and who had 200 relatives living in Maui officially “adopted” him into the family and made him a cousin. Jose is now a Puerto Pino (Puerto Rican-Filipino)

One night, bored out of our skulls, we went out to go to a local movie theater. Nothing interesting was on except for a controversial comedy feature. We watched it anyway, and laughed ourselves silly at the most inane gags and stunts in that movie. Someone drove us to the theaters, but we had to hike back to the center. The walk to the theater was a good 2 kilometers, but it was a pleasant night – a bit cold, but altogether pleasant. I think that’s where we fully bonded (although we got on famously right off the bat). I’d never forget how cool he was when we found we were locked out of the building. He coolly found a way to let us in (called Ram from his room, woke him up and told him to open the door for us from inside).

More than anyone of us (who were not brave enough), Jose would try out new things – dive into the cold waterfall pool, eat raw fish or pork intestines (but not balut), or simply go out with people he hardly knows (well, us, the first time). And we all liked him for that.

fearless Jose trying raw fish (sorry, you didn't get to try balut)

He was also my partner in the foot-washing ceremony. During the ceremony, we had to say something or pledge something to our partner. I told Jose that he will always be in my prayers, and that I know God has something great in store for him. And I know too that this is true. God has something for this man - his family, his person, his achievements will be used by God in a mighty way. I look forward to hearing what amazing things God is doing through him.

Jose will be on my mind for a long time. He is someone I will never forget. Already, we are making plans to go on a trip together. Manila! Bangkok! I hope that this will come true.

Hasta la vista, mi amigo, mi hermano. Vaya con Dios!

Slava

2008-11-20T19:52:00.002+08:00

Slava and the Hawaiian sunset

Slava was the first Russian I have met personally, and he broke my heart.

Slava is a pastor, a good one, as far as I can tell. He is also a story-teller. He can enchant you with his stories – stories of his life in Russia, the stories of brothers and sisters in Christ, and what they do there as believers during the Communist persecution, and even after. The way that he would tell his stories could charm you, and you would feel as you were really there in his stories. He would laugh at his own jokes, and he has a laugh that is contagious and innocent. We attended the four-week training here in Maui. I’ve spent some time with him, and I really enjoy his company. He is funny, brusque and yet also child-like.

He told me he was a painter, and he would paint icons when he was younger. He painted icons because he was searching for God – he wanted to know this God who is depicted in this ancient art form. One day, his aunt showed him a 19th century Bible, big and ornate, hidden under the floor of her house. It was a relic from the past, hidden because of the persecution. And from there Slava got to know the power of God’s Word. He encountered Jesus Christ, and all his questions about God was satisfied by reading the four Gospels in ancient Russian language. Long before the missionaries came in the post-USSR Russia, Slava has found God.

This is how he broke my heart:

Last Sunday, Slava witnessed something that shocked him – scandalized him even. He was deeply disturb – not just by what he saw, he was also alarmed that we who were supposed to be spiritual men did not even flinch or think there was anything wrong. You could sense his disturbance. Usually full of stories and always laughing, he was silent on our way home. His spirit was greatly troubled.

My heart went out to him. While many of us think nothing of what we have witnessed, Slava took offense. He knew God had certain standards, and this standard should never be broken. “God will judge this,” he intoned. While many of us would have dismissed what he said to be old-fashioned or terribly naïve, something inside me – sacred and ancient was awaken. I was confronted with his innocence and sense of holiness. There were still things that can not and should not be acceptable in Slava’s world. Contrast that with the seemingly world-weary view we have taken. I asked myself, “when was the last time I was outraged by sin?” Have I become so calloused that sin, no matter how barefaced, no matter how outrageous, no longer affects me?

His response to this scandal was a rude-awakening for me. My heart was broken, because it needed to be broken. Years of cleverness and cynicism have dulled my sense of righteousness, perhaps, and I needed a reminder quick. And so Slava, just at the right time, confronted me with his sense of holiness.

Slava’s righteous indignation was a rebuke to me. – me who should have known better, me who should have a strong sense of moral conviction. My prayer is that God will renew within me a sense of innocence and childlikeness in my faith, so that I too, just like Slava, will never learn to accept sin so easily, and so lightly.

Daniel

2008-11-13T19:09:00.003+08:00

Daniel from Moldova is a hulk of a guy: big, quiet, unassuming. He has a gaze that can pierce you. He is as they said, typical of his culture – strong, direct, and blunt. He looks like he can fight a bear with his barehands, and i woudn’t be surprised if he actually did. I tried to jump on his back one day, and he didn’t even budge. He is an ox. He is an agriculturist, and when he talks about farm, and planting, you realize that he knows quite a lot about it. The technology, the plants he has, and the many things that agriculture imply. He speaks with a thick Russian accent (or Moldovan), and we joke about him and another Russian to be part of the KGB, or the Russian mafia. And he would only smile whenever we would do that.

Then at their regional presentation (here at our 4-week conference), Daniel sang. You wouldn’t know that he has a fine tenor voice. You couldn’t have guessed that he can sing with such tenderness and such poignancy that it can bring tears to your eyes. He said the song he was singing was an old Russian song, and that Christians know this song. Then he began to tell us that this song was sung by their congregation the night 150 policemen and their hunt dogs, and bulldozers came to destroy their place of prayer. This was during the communist years, a time of terrible persecution – about 18 years ago, when he was still a teenager. Before the building was to be razed down to the ground, they asked the police to allow them to sing and to pray. This was the song they raised up to cry to God.

He sang the song in Russian. He said it talked about the love of God. We did not know the words he said, but we understood what the song was about. It was in his voice, it was in the way he strummed the guitar, in the way he closed his eyes while he sang it. There was a sweetness in his voice, and sensitivity in his fingers as he sang. It harkened to a past that was filled with peril, but with such sweet joy. We were there with him as he surely thought of that night when their building was destroyed, knowing that what they have can never be broken, nor destroyed. As he sang it, I felt the visitation of the Lord as the hushed audience listened with rapt attention. It was a sacred moment.

There are a lot of things we can never understand. There’s a lot of things that we can never know, but one thing is sure: the Lord our God is an infinitely gracious God, and He has raised us to be His children. And no matter where we are: in the heart of a metropolitan city, or in a tropical paradise, or in the fields of Moldova, He is never too far to be out of reach, and never weak so as not to transform us and lift us up in our time of need.

Thank you for that moment, Daniel.

Dateline: Maui

2008-11-02T16:29:00.006+08:00

lush tropical paradise within the Haggai Institute facilities

I have to admit - and at the risk of sounding trite and hackneyed, Maui is beautiful! I mean it wouldn't be a cliche to say that Hawaii is a tropical paradise for nothing. The surprisingly cool, windy weather, the ready smile of the people - all these were delightful gifts that astound, and delight.

The ten hour flight from Manila to Honolulu was long, but not unpleasant. The two hour wait for the transfer to Maui wasn't that bad. And we first got our first glimpse of Maui as the airplane circled around to prepare for landing, we let out a collective gasp of admiration. The word verdant seemed to be have been invented to describe the lush greenery before us. The sea was an impossible shade of aquamarine, and the gigantic surf from the distance was a wave of warm, vigorous Aloha.

sunset over maui

I shall post a few more things about the beautiful Maui in the days to come. in the meantime, the beaches and the jacuzzi is calling my name, and it is a siren call that cannot be ignored...

a foretaste of heaven...20 countries represented

The Twelve and the Two

2008-10-28T14:21:00.002+08:00

The OMF Lit Writer's Workshop participants

The twelve men and the two women that gathered in that small room were all intently working. Some were staring off to space; someone else was making copious notes, while others were busily tap-tapping away at their keyboards, faces aglow in the blue light of their laptops. They were all participants in the writer’s workshop recently held at the Development Academy of the Philippines, Tagaytay City. The workshop was sponsored by OMF Lit, the foremost Christian publishing house in the region. The bearded guy seated at head of the table is Tim Stafford, eminent writer of the significant “Knowing the Face of God,” and articles in Christianity Today and numerous other publications. The others were businessmen, professors, pastors, NGO executives, teachers and entrepreneurs, all caught up in the passion to write. All are captivated by the magic of the written word.

As iron sharpens iron...

The invitation to be part of this workshop came as a surprise, but nonetheless gladly accepted. I forever wanted to be a published writer, and when Beng called to say I was invited, I couldn’t help but be exceedingly glad. After wracking my brains for a book proposal needed for the workshop, I finally came up with the title Simple Virtues: Living Out a Life of Greater Meaning and Deeper Spirituality. There will be ten chapters for this book, and each of the chapter will deal with one particular virtue: humility, simplicity, grace, kindness, among others.

The workshop itself was very productive. For the first time, my writing was subjected to analysis, criticism and feed back. The comments and reactions were all made with deliberate points, and all were gladly welcomed and noted. To the guys: Ardy, Joby, Jess, Josil, Jun, Ed, Ru, Boris, and Nes, and to the editorial staff, Yna, Beng, and Ian, and of course to the inimitable Tim Stafford, thanks!

Working until the coffee, and really good cake is gone...

Here’s to that book we are all trying to write!

All About A Book

2008-10-21T10:44:00.004+08:00

Finally...after seven years, the volume that has an interesting article (ahem) by me and a good friend, Brian Howell is out.

Ha! I'm finally a published writer! Yay!

Here's the amazon link so you can browse it: Book!

2008-09-19T09:35:00.013+08:00

Here's one of the most memorable scenes in one of my favorite movies of all time, Almost Famous

Last Quarter Reading List

2008-09-19T09:35:00.009+08:00

Here some books I am currently reading/will be reading during the last quarter of this year.

1. Ma Jian's Red Dust - a young man's introspective journey into China, and the discovery of his people, but also of himself.

2. Junot Diaz' The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - the title itself holds the promise of a great story.

3. Philip Pullman's His Dark Material

a. The Golden Compass
b. The Subtle Knife
c. The Amber Spyglass

Found the three-volume set in a second-hand bookshop at U.P. Diliman. I'm not into speculative fiction much, but this one looks interesting.

4. Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar - semi-autobiographical account of Plath's descent into a nervous breakdown and suicide as a young girl.

5. Violette Leduc's La Batarde - a memoir

6. Hawai'i: True Stories - a collection of works about Hawaii by famous writers like Paul Theroux, Barbara Kingsolver, and many others. A preparation of sorts for my upcoming trip to the beatuiful islands of Hawaii.

7. Chuck Palahniuk's Rant - definitely an acquired taste, Palahniuk's narratives are dark, twisted and yet utterly fascinating. I am hooked.

The Audience of One

2008-07-31T14:36:00.002+08:00

In my great need to be pleasing – to earn, in one way or another, the applause, or at the very least, the approval of another – I feel the call to put on masks. I dutifully don on the appropriate mask for whatever occasion. You need to understand that this need is not some desperate call for attention, or a pathetic excuse to be noticed. It is not some sad attempt to bring significance to an otherwise meaningless existence. For truth of the matter is, we all feel this desire, this deep need: to be noticed, to be appreciated, to be affirmed. We are driven by the motivation of wanting to impress, to make a mark, to please others. We seek it. We need it. We yearn for it. Spouses, friends, parents, children, colleagues: we all seek it from them. Human praise, or the desire for it, is by no means evil, nor shameful. When we are honest with ourselves we recognize that human praise, imperfect it may seem, inadequate it can be, is a gift. For we know, that at the very core of who and what we are, we have been wired for this – to be accepted, to be loved. A warm smile, a pat on the back, a look of recognition – we seek them, and like a cold drink on an arid day, we imbibe it and celebrate it, our parched hearts coming alive with the cool, refreshing moisture of human appreciation.

And yet, what if it does not come?

And yet, what if it is given imperfectly, inadequately (as is always the case)?

Should frustration be the cloak that shall cover us, therefore? Shall the bitter brew of resentment and rejection be our choice cocktail? We seethe with unfulfilled dreams. We simmer with some half-forgotten rage, a general sense of annoyance that chafe, and poke, and wound. Because truth of the matter, we never get what we desire. We never get the attention we need. We never receive the praise and the admiration from the people we have been driven to impress. And like children we sulk at the very thought of being ignored. And like world-weary cynics that we have come to be, we are tired, and restless, for we never get enough so as to be comfortable in our little corners, content and silent.

And yet, in the spotlight of our daily performances, we forget that there is another way to live. There is a way to live, away from resentments, frustrations and bitterness – away from the dissatisfaction of not getting enough appreciation, and affirmation. There is Someone whose grace and kindness allows us to perform without the pressures of undue expectations, without the forced rhythms of musts and shoulds, freedom from the ruthless cycle of donning on masks and hiding our true selves. For this Audience of One sees our labors, and recognizes our frustrations. For in Him, we regain our focus. In His purposes, we align the meaning of our lives, and in His gaze, we find acceptance, appreciation, love. As we live for this Audience of One, we become content, and our needs are simplified. The thousand voices that demand our time, our efforts, our best, are muffled by the beating of His heart – the beating that will become the drum that we march to.

This Conversation

2008-07-19T12:03:00.000+08:00

“If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something… The answer must be in the attempt.”

Celine, Before Sunrise

(one of the best films made, in my opinion)

This conversation we are having – I revel in this. I celebrate the exchange that goes on between us – this give and take of information, of details both important and trivial – for this is the very stuff of the connections and bonds we thirst and hunger for. It is in moments like these that the primeval aloneness, of which we actually are, is temporarily bridged, and we drink our fill. We drink deep for it is rare that we find these connections. We go at it like someone who had found an oasis, for it is yet another desert that we cross before we can ever find ourselves refreshed with the newness of the waters of friendships, its freshness sending a shock wave to our system. I revel in this- in the subtle gestures, faint smiles, and knowing looks – for we have found this connection, ephemeral and yet so fundamental. I step out of this moment, and look at us: two people who found connection, sharing something, and a kind of magic is weaved in the attempt.

Words are words – yet they somehow take on an element that goes beyond the utility of communication. They become like draughts of air we breathe in, filling our lungs with oxygen, stinging our eyes with tears. They become nourishments that feed the soul, and something magical transpires. Lostness becomes a poignant underline reminding us of these moments we so rarely have. And so we make our connections – our time a gift, but we act as if there is an inexhaustible amount of it and we squander it, knowing that it is worth the sands that trickle down the clock.

The Condescension of Power Who is also Love

2008-07-09T14:50:00.002+08:00

In the cusp of enchantment, caught up in the amazing display of beauty, we stand in a moment that transcends the very core of who we are. And yet, it is also these moments that we are fully aware of our ordinariness, of our being commonplace. In this scenic panorama of might and resplendence, we are conscious of that details that make us what and who we are – our nondescript shoes, our regular clothes, haircuts – these bespeak our non-extraordinary status. We are confronted with our finiteness- we are who we are: a strange mixture of compounds and elements of the earth, gifted with ephemeral breath, and bound by the confines of this too mortal of a body. The details of our unremarkable existence situated us in this space, in this time, and thus, it is altogether dreary. And yet this life is imbibed with the possibility of heartbreaking beauty, and heart-rending revelations, both merciful and yet terrible. From time to time, there comes a tear in the fabric of our uniforms, and moments of transcendent radiance breaks forth. And suddenly we are transformed. We are lifted into a plain far beyond our imagination, and into heights that scale the highest mountains of our existence. It is for these moments that we live for.

Our average days lived in so commonplace a life can sometimes be imbued with strange beauty, and it is the sharp contrast that confronts us in a moment of astonishing power: He who is light, He is who is power, has condescended so that these myopic eyes may somehow glimpse at the things only the grandeur of mountains and the magnificence of the oceans hint at. He, who holds the universe in His hands, reaches out in a moment of tenderness and touches us with such tentativeness so as not to shatter us into a million pieces. Clearly, such power and such a Being do not need finite, trivial specks in the infiniteness of His existence. Clearly, this act of condescension is an act of utter extravagance, of total waste of beauty, for we see nothing but a poor reflection. We cannot appreciate the deeper nuances of His character, and the subtlety of His wisdom. We too can only take so much of His brilliance. Our eyes cannot take it. Our hearts will burst with such glory. But in an act of unprecedented generosity, He lets us in on a secret: He is love, and His delight is in forming a bond with us. And so, He clothed Himself in the terrible rags of humanity, and made His dwelling among us, and we beheld His glory.

The Search for Zerzura

2008-06-24T14:27:00.005+08:00

I've created another blog which will mainly be about travelling - both of the geographical and the philosophical kind. Do drop by.

The Search for Zerzura

Self-Disclosure

2008-06-11T10:03:00.002+08:00

Let me do the one thing that scares me to death. Let me face that which I fear most – for in such confrontation is a kind of death that is both liberating and exhilarating.. Therefore, let me look deep into my heart and find in the most tender, most hidden side of it, and let me take it with both hands and expose it to You – for even if nothing is hidden from you, I am the one who is renewed, healed with this very act of self-disclosure.

Fling open the rusted windows and the nailed passages of my soul. Let the sunshine of Your presence invade the darkest places of my innermost being – for even if it leaves me vulnerable and sensitive – for even if exposure is sometimes worse that a thousand deaths – I rest in Your tenderness. While Your touch will sting and hurt me – it will not destroy me. I may come undone, but the very act of self-revelation is a freedom that shall unshackle the chains that bind me. Let me breathe in the purest air. Let me feel the life-giving inhalation rush through my lungs, clearing the cobwebbed abyss of my mind. Let me feel the sting of its freshness as it brings tears to my eyes.

I am greedy for Your cleansing. I covet the very light I have for so long avoided. I tear open myself to you – naked, utterely bereft of coverings, for Your light shall cover me and clothe me with something new and fresh.

Bangkok In Four Scenes

2008-06-09T16:11:00.004+08:00

the ubiquitous street food stalls beckons and beguiles the adventurous in you

I. Convent Road

Bangkok feels like a celebration – its festive colors of red, gold and green are splashes that explode in a sensory kaleidoscope; its landscape is hewn out of the sheer force of charm and the haunting strings of faraway dreams. And I have found a slice of it in this busy side-street. The side-walks are filled with street food vendors. It exists right beside expensive, fancy restaurants, and trendy bars. It is a place so familiar it feels like home, but it is also a place one can get lost in. It is a place for a drugged out white bum on the sidewalk as it is for that power-suited lady on her way somewhere important, the stink of the bum and the perfume of the lady mingle and create an atmosphere so distinct it can only be Bangkok. It is not incongruent to see a Mercedes Benz-driving executive to share a table with a high school boy still in his shorts at some street food vendor’s make-shift restaurant than to see tourists, locals and the out of this world gawk at the parade that is Bangkok right before their eyes. It beckons with a deceptive smile, and amidst the scented incense that fills the air, you are captivated. I know I am. And although, there is a persistent undertow of menace in the air, you choose to ignore it, knowing that once you have succumbed to the charms of Bangkok - in your waking dreams, you will find yourself, again and again, back in this city.

II. Suan Lum

It is my first night here, and the monsoon rains have come in torrents. The hot, humid air gave way to the lulling coolness the rain has brought. I am caught in its heavy downpour. We are drenched – my new found friends and I- huddled at some inadequate canopy, having pad thais and spicy rice with crabs, and fruits- with the flood of rain underfoot ankle deep. It is supposed to be a miserable night, but we felt otherwise. It felt the most natural thing in the world – to be caught in a torrential upheaval while laughing, having ice-cold watermelon juices, and the exotic tang of durian still lingering in your mouth, its perfume a heady aroma that is both lethal and lovely. The tacky tourist souvenir shops with its little Buddhas, suffocating incense, and t-shirts with vulgar prints, and other curious items lend an atmosphere that invites you to suspend beliefs. Anything can happen. Anything can be seen. A kathoey walks past, his/her languid ways mesmerize and terrifies. “How much you want?” urges the vendors, eyeing you with an earnestness that is heartbreaking- but you know its all about the kill. You ignore the almost pleading tone and you walk past his merchandise. But once past it, you have a desire to go back and see, but the stalls aren’t there anymore. It has vanished, and you feel lost – bereft of some magic that had you captivated just for a moment.

what is a little rain, a little flooding and becoming wet if one can have a plate of glorious pad thai? the appetite of academic deans come rain or high water...

III. River City (lee-vee-see-teeh) Cruise

How quickly the sumptuous dinner buffet turned into a surrealist’s nightmare as the hypnotic beat of a Bollywood song urges the timid and the shy to stand up and dance like mad men. Raised hands, stomping fee, hips swaying to the rhythm of electronica turn the staid audience into regular party goers – all in the name of fun. Because you realize – as long as the river cruise lasts, you exist in another world altogether. You are not who you are. You are somebody else. You are someone who dances, who sings along bawdy songs. You forget who you were – while the lights of the city pass you by – the temple and the palaces become an incongruous backdrop to this liminal space.

Then the morning comes sheepishness, and a little embarrassment as the morning sunshine sheds light on a night better forgotten. You have no excuse. You had fun. And why not?

We certainly love our King (photo courtesy of Calvin)

IV. Watpo

Sonorous chants can be heard from a distance, as incense fills the air even as the rhythmic clink of coins being offered serve as a sound track for this sacred space. The gigantic Buddha reclines in its golden splendor – comfortable even it is constantly gawked at by tourists, onlookers and backpackers. The scent mingles with the sweat of the crowd, the fragrance of flowers and the surprising ripe smell of body odor coming from saffron-robed monks. What sacred mystery that enveloped this place once upon a time is long torn to shreds by the lure of commercialism. Whatever secrets may be whispered from the stories from the tapestries have long been deafened by the incessant chatter of those who have come to make this visit in the hopes of peace and quiet. For what we seek, we lose, what we treasure we destroy eventually. And while the monkey king is forever locked in some celestial battle, the sheen of gold leaf is peeling, and the marble façade is crumbling, exposing concrete and twisted iron bars. From its position way above the top wall, it looks on the onlooker with benevolence, and obsolescence.

Can't Get It Out of My Mind...

2008-06-02T16:22:00.003+08:00

Last Song Syndrome* - the condition from which you cannot take a song out of your mind...not that they are any good, or meaningful - they just get stuck in your mind for no reason at all. Aaaarrrrggggh! This song's on my mind for the past few days now...not really a bad song, but still i just wish it would stop so i can take some respite. Now I'm posting it so I can inflict on you too hehehe...nah...just sharing what's on my mind...

Colbie Caillat Lyrics

Bubbly by Coldie Caillat

V1: I've been awake for a while now
you've got me feelin like a child now
cause every time I see your bubbly face
I get the tinglies in a silly place

C: It starts in my toes
and I crinkle my nose
where ever it goes I always know
that you make me smile
please stay for a while now
just take your time
where ever you go

V2: The rain is fallin on my window pane
but we are hidin in a safer place
under covers stayin dry *(safe) and warm
you give me feelins that I adore

C: It starts in my toes
make me crinkle my nose
where ever it goes
i always know
that you make me smile
please stay for a while now
just take your time
where ever you go

B: What am I gonna say
when you make me feel this way
I just........mmmmmm

C: It starts in my toes
make me crinkle my nose
where ever it goes
i always know
that you make me smile
please stay for a while now
just take your time
where ever you go

V3: I've been asleep for a while now
You tucked me in just like a child now
Cause every time you hold me in your arms
I'm comfortable enough to feel your warmth

C: It starts in my soul
And I lose all control
When you kiss my nose
The feelin shows
Cause you make me smile
Baby just take your time now
Holdin me tight

Where ever, where ever, where ever you go
Where ever, where ever, where ever you go
Where ever you go, I'll always know
Cause you make me smile here, just for a while

*To listen to music before going out of the house, and having the last song you hear before leaving stick in your head all through your journey, and beyond. Is usually accompanied by subconscious humming. This syndrome is particularly dangerous when the song happens to be the most pathetic, crappy, albeit catchy song ever.

The Mother

2008-05-08T13:16:00.005+08:00

In the 80's, I have heard of the news of the death of two cousins I've never met. They were brothers, and were involved in the underground movement trying to fight an oppressive regime. For that they were brutally tortured and murdered. In my young mind, I couldn't conceive of how unjust, how cruel the world can be. In my young, idealistic mind, they were heroes - heroes who fought and paid for the cause they were fighting with their lives.

Then I came across this poem, written by Padraic Pearse who was himself executed along with his brother for their involvement in a failed attempt to free Ireland from its oppressor. This poem, a prayer actually, is from a mother's perspective mourning the loss of her sons- feeling the intense pain of losing her children, but also of realizing the great contribution her sons has given. This somehow brought another dimension of what I might have come to think of as a glorious sacrifice: the pain and the suffering not only of the martyrs but of those who were left behind.

I think of my cousins' mother: how she must have felt the heart-rending, gut-wrenching lament of losing her sons but also the pride that her sons fought a good fight. I've met their mother, my aunt, a few times since then, and I have come to admire her quiet strength and cheerful disposition inspite of the pain no mother should ever feel. Poignant, quietly powerful, this poem made me realize that there are human emotions, and pain in every aspect of life- be it in pursuit of a noble cause, or in the fight for whatever is right. And the sacrifices of those left behind can be as painful, and as intense as those who gave their lives for their cause.

So by way of a Mother's Day commemoration, I share this poem by Padraic Pearse. I believe that this poem was given to Rose Kennedy, mother of the slain John F. Kennedy, after the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy.

The Mother
Pádraic H. Pearse
I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow—And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.

Something Sacred

2008-04-17T13:47:00.002+08:00

There is something about the silence in the moment just before dawn that always captivates – it is a deep breath before the radiance of the day breaks forth like a resounding trumpet. It is a silence that echoes back to the foundation of the universe when the first song was sung. It is the pause that seems to gear up the world in preparation for the challenges ahead, an in-between time that transitions from the dreams of yesterday to the realities of the day. We sense it – the nocturnal crickets have finally ceased, the winds of dawn blow ever so gently- and an unfathomable quietness envelopes us like a lullaby, like a serenade to a slumbering heart. Only those who take time to listen to it will hear it – this stillness that is filled with longing. It is a peace that harkens to a primeval harmony, a calling to return to a womb-like embrace. It is the silence of Him whose words became the foundation of everything that has ever been created and built. It is the silence of His deep satisfaction – when all that He has created, all that He has done is good. It is the silence of the soul that has finally come home and found rest.

But it does not do well to remain in this silence forever, in this shroud of the mysterious and the deep. One cannot and must not. Soon the busyness of the world will break through this thin membrane of quietness. Soon the hustle and the bustle of life will intrude and crash through the carefully cultivated retreat. The weariness of existence will have to be met head-on – the demands and the confrontation of needs being encountered from a thousand different points will stretch and disturb. Pain, discomfort, and stress become the emblem of the world around us. Much as we like to remain in the quiet embrace of the sacred moment, we dare go out into the noisy, brash and bright world. For we are created not only to revel in the coolness of the day, but also to exist and to struggle in the harshness of the sun – not only should we celebrate the quietness of His love, but also to bring that love into a world that is cruel, and full of pain.

This is what we should learn then: Moments of quiet love prepares us for the strains of living out as the community loved by Him who has loved unconditionally, and whose love demands the acceptance and the embracing of even the most difficult of people and circumstances. To retreat from this world, but also to lose out on these moments of quietness means the loss of something vital and sacred in each one of us..

The Paradox of Hongkong

2008-04-15T14:02:00.004+08:00

The storm-cloud colored skies amidst towering skyscrapers and rain-drenched concrete pavements brought in a coldness that hung heavy in the air the morning we arrived in Hongkong two weeks ago. Hongkong – at least my memory of it – was always raining. Rivulets of rain came streaming against the airplane windows the first time I saw Hongkong a few years back. It was a dismal day that day. A tropical typhoon was sweeping the ultra-modern, über-sophisticated city. Apart from the blinking, distant lights, I could not discern shapes or features. As if to keep up with tradition, when I returned two years after, rain unseasonably began to pour in the middle of a blazing summer not long after we arrived. The rains lent a certain mystic to the urban Hongkong and cooled considerably the infernal city streets. It lead me to hurriedly scribble the following lines during an hour-long bus ride from the Saikung district to Wanchai: ““Pewter-colored day that should have been devoid of charm, but the rains weaved ancient magic as the clouds shroud the piercing skyscrapers in mystery, harking back to olden China where heroes fought and lived epic adventures.”

Heady and hypnotic - the busy streets of Mongkok

But Hongkong will always be beguiling to me for it is such a paradox. In the midst of a sea of humanity milling about on Nathan Road to the heady scent of the street food wafting all over, to the tacky and cheap tourist souvenirs you find in the night market of Temple Street to the sleek and fashionably up-to-date and terribly upscale malls, you feel the pulsating excitement. Something is happening here. Something grand and cosmic is taking place. You can’t miss it. There is a hypnotic beat that throb just under the beat of the night life, a mantra to get up and get going, an inescapable desire to race to the top, to change, to be tear off old things and begin anew. A phoenix-like magic overcomes the city to burn itself so that a brighter, younger, more vibrant self can emerge. However, Stephen, our guide to the local scenes of Mongkok and who grew up in the area, would tell us that some things never change. He pointed out the schools where he finished his elementary and secondary education, the old spots that refused to fade even in the midst of a burgeoning desire to innovate and change; the hawkers and the pimps of the old red light district and local eateries that still had the old-fashioned ceiling fans where he recalls famous stars of olden days would come to dine and be seen. There is a feel of ancient charm in the air as hotpots traditionally slow cooked using red-hot coals beguile and tantalize the passers by to take a seat among the scruffy looking backpackers and the well-dressed locals.

"There is where the refuse of the city are dumped."

We turn a corner, and then we come to a quiet part of Shanghai Street. Stephen pointed to a garbage collecting warehouse across the street where we were standing at. It reeked faintly of decay and refuse as trucks collect and dump the city’s garbage in this warehouse to be shipped somewhere later. He made us look to the second story of the building. He said that that place is a shelter, a temporary place for homeless persons. This center is run by the Salvation Army. This is where the poorest and the humblest can find hot soup and a bed space for the night. He gave an ironic snort. “This is where the refuse of the city are dumped,” he says. The quarters have no air conditioning system. It sits directly above the garbage. Imagine the smell during the summer season, he told us. “That’s so sad, “ I observed. “It’s not sad,” Stephen added, “this is Hongkong!” Then he told us about the lovely brick house where we were standing at. He said that this was a historic site. The government has spent a lot of money to restore this site. I forget why it was historic, but Stephen said that this was a special place. A brick wall was also restored. Just behind the landmark was a tall, luxurious condominium complex. “Look, they built it so high that those that live there cannot see what’s going on down here! They put up this brick walls so that they cannot see what’s on the street just opposite them!” Filled with emotion, Stephen pointed to the garbage disposal center and the shelter for the homeless, and then gestured towards the expensive historical landmark and the steel and glass building. “They stand so close to each other, but they do not see each other!” Stephen told us, “This is Hongkong for you!”

"This is Hongkong for you"

U2 3D*

2008-04-01T18:35:00.009+08:00

What's the next best thing to watching U2 live in concert? Watching them perform in 3D! Quite frankly, I was blown away! I just left the IMAX theater, and I can still feel and hear the music in my head! It was amazing - not because the acoustic of the theater was great, nor was it because the screen was 6-storey tall, nor because of the 3D effect (although, of course these added to the overall effect), but more so it was because of the power, the beauty and the sheer force that only Bono, The Edge, Larry McMullen Jr. and Adam Clayton can bring. At times stridently political, at times poignantly lamenting the loss of humanity's innocence - at times transcendent and sacred, often times profance and earthy, the band fearlessly tackled religion, politics, love, and the human condition of degradation and corruption, but their message is surprisingly suffesed with hope and love for humankind. What is unique and beautiful about U2 is not that they are just a rock band, but they are a band with a message. It was one hour and a half of total tour de force.

From the first strains of Vertigo's 'Hello! Hello!..." to the last notes of the prayerful, "Yahweh" the U2 3D movie is worth the P500.00 one had to shell out in order to experience the magic. Wikipedia summarizes the show through the play list: In the film, the band plays an 11-song set and returns to the stage for a two-song encore. One more song plays while the end credits roll. "Vertigo"; "Beautiful Day"; "New Year's Day"; "Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own"; "Love and Peace or Else"; "Sunday Bloody Sunday"; "Bullet the Blue Sky"; "Miss Sarajevo" / Reading of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights; "Pride (In the Name of Love)"; "Where the Streets Have No Name"; "One"; "The Fly"; With or Without You" and in the end credits, "Yahweh."

For me, one of the most moving scene was when they sang Ms. Sarajevo and its plaintive and strongly ironic lyrics. The song made way for the reading of the articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Beautiful. Bono was like a shaman that brought the people to a liminal space where pains are soothe away, and where hope infuses the weary and the wounded. In one scene, he tenderly reaches out to the camera, and whispers, "I will wipe away your tears..."

You say that the riverfinds the way to the sea

and like the riveryou will come to me

beyond the bordersand the dry lands

You say that like a river like a river...

the love will come the love...

And i don't know how to pray anymore and

in love i don'tknow how to hope anymore

and for that love i don't know how to wait anymore

*U2 3D is a concert film released in 2008, the first live-action movie to be shot, produced, and screened exclusively with digital 3-D technology. The film is composed of footage from several shows from U2's Vertigo Tour in 2006. It is the band's second theatrically released movie, after 1988's Rattle and Hum.
(fromwikipedia)

Summer Reading List 2008

2008-03-26T15:20:00.011+08:00

I meant to post this earlier, but complications like being in the hospital got in the way of things…talk about summer breaks!

The hot blazing sun leaves one with a hankering to go to the beach, show off one’s Havaianas, and drink the coldest drinks with little umbrellas. Ah, summer. So clichéd and yet still so fun.

My reading list for this summer has some sort of a theme going, although at first I didn’t . It is about writers writing about well, writing. Or writers writing about other writers. Or about reading. Of course other genres make an appearance, so as it lend my reading list this summer the sort of eclecticism I always like.

Believer’s Book of Writers Talking to Writers -What more fun could there be when writers talk to other writers about their craft.Sublime!Here’s a quote from Ian McEwan on novels:

“With the novel, we have happened to devise this form, this very elastic, mutable form that can allow us moments of real human investigation…It’s an open-ended way of looking at our own image in ways that science can’t do, religion’s not credible, metaphysics is too intellectually repellent on its surface – this is our best machine as it were.”

2. Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Living to Tell the Tale – the long-awaited first installment of his autobiography, Marquez recalls his early childhood and indeed tells a tale where magical things occur. Beautiful.

3. Nobel Lectures: From the Literature Laureates,1986-2006. Here’s the blurb from amazon.com: Since the first Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded in 1901, controversy has surrounded the prize, the laureates and their Nobel lectures, often relating to political engagement or lack thereof. Covering the past 20 years, this collection gathers the remarks of writers as diverse as Orhan Pamuk, J.M. Coetzee, Seamus Heaney, Toni Morrison and Naguib Mahfouz. Pamuk speaks of writing as a solitary venture: writers must feel compelled to shut ourselves up in a room... so that we can create a deep world in our writing. Harold Pinter uses his moment in the Nobel sun to issue a strident attack on the U.S.-British invasion of Iraq. For Gao Xingjian, the writer's task involves the search for truth: To subvert is not the aim of literature; its value lies in discovering and revealing... truth of the human world.... And Joseph Brodsky concludes that a human being is an aesthetic creature before he is an ethical one. While the lectures provide inspiring glimpses of the nature of literature and the aim of the writing life, the collection lacks a strong introduction to explore these disparate views or to explain the rationale for a collection of speeches that are readily available elsewhere. (Oct.)

5. Carson McCuller’s The Heart is a Lonely Hunter – McCuller’s debut novel, this is considered a classic tale of the coming of age of a girl in the deep South. Very sharp images. Very vivid metaphors.

6. Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory – Greene’s most famous work, this is about the Catholic persecution in

Mexico

and its unlikely hero, the unnamed whiskey priest. I fell in
love with Greene's meditative and ultimately shocking rendering of the human experience.

7. Frederick Buechner’s Brendan – the tale of a medieval saint, Buechner writes with quiet beauty that is both insightful and challenging. Here’s what the blurb from Barnes and Nobles says about the novel: An artistic triumph to rival the award-winning Godric and Buechner's other outstanding works, this novel about St. Brendan the Navigator reads like inspired biography. Finn, Brendan's friend, recounts events from the saint's birth in 484 until his death at age 94. The chronicle convincingly recreates Ireland of the times and, even more impressively, the many people involved with Brendan: Bishop Erc, ``weaned from druidry by the sainted Patrick,'' at the sound of whose name ``the angels wet their holy breeches,'' and Maeve, the warrior woman whose spit cracks a stone in half, are just two of the company Finn brings to vigorous life. From Brendan himself, the reader learns about the wonders and disappointments of his fabulous sea voyages in search of Tir-na-n-Og, ``Promised Land of Saints.'' Ribald humor, piercing sorrows and miraculous moments join seamlessly in Buechner's latest literary feat.

8. Frederick Buechner’s Storm – Buechner’s retelling of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Blurb at Barnes and Noble declares that this novel is“Infused with humanity, and informed by faith. The Storm is Frederick Buechner's most captivating novel sinceGodric--a richly satisfying contemporary story of fragmented families and love's many mysteries that will move you, makeyou laugh, and fill you with wonder.”

Riveted

2008-03-03T11:25:00.000+08:00

Came across this poem, and it moved me...

It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think we have crossed it.
Now we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.

Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.

It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious dénouement
to the unsurprising end - riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives, and because they are ours.

~ "Riveted" by Robyn Sarah

Birthday Perorations in Okinawa

2008-01-28T13:10:00.000+08:00

On my birthday, I treated myself to a double cheeseburger at McDonalds. I was walking around that morning and I got hungry. If you were in Kokusai St. in downtown of Naha City, Okinawa, Japan, you’d discover that even if you wanted to treat yourself to a good meal because it’s your birthday, budget and prices will prohibit you, and you’ll quickly discover that McDonalds’ is the cheapest place to eat. And so on the day I turned a year older, I had me a burger with fries and a large diet soda.

Playing the tourist at Kokusai Street, Naha City, Okinawa

It was my plan to spend the day by myself. And of all places, I spent it on a location where the exotic characters that left me illiterate and child-like, and the unknown language made the aloneness virtually complete. It was a strange and yet compelling experience, an existential exercise one needs to subject oneself occasionally. When the familiar is taken away, and the crutches of the usual are displaced, one is forced to confront that which cannot be taken out – the Cartesian self. So, with only myself as company, I began to explore Okinawa, and the exploration soon became a brooding inward journey to self. It was an odyssey long overdue.

Kokusia Street (International Street) surprises, and delights, and shocks ($4 for a bowl of soba!). It is a flood of sensory delights with its vibrant colors and flourishes. It is mainly a commercial district with the garish and the vulgar blends effortlessly with that which is truly sublime and artistic. Kokusai at some point became the microcosm of my Japanese experience (of course they say it is totally a different scenario in Tokyo and other places in Japan, but I was where I was) – unfamiliar, beautiful, exhilarating. At some tucked-away corner, a tiny garden with a fountain and a colorful horse sculpture waits to be discovered, while high school girls in their impossibly short skirts try to act cool and sophisticated as they explore the street and where characters out of a Fellini movie (or should I say, Kurosawa?) mill about. The surreality of the moment was further intensified when a man in full skiing attire (mask, overalls and boots) strode by as if it was nothing out of the ordinary.

I turn a corner and suddenly I was at the public market – wide, labyrinthine, full of curious things. I have reached the epicenter of this throbbing metropolis, its heart. I sense a vibration quite different from what I am used to. I feel a beat not quite the same one I march to. I gawk at people as they walk by, seemingly involved in their own private world of subsistence and my sense of otherness is magnified by just how familiar yet bewildering the ways things are in this side of the world. It was a disconcerting feeling – this experience of otherness. I was the foreigner. I was the outsider observing the way things go, and the most mundane of things like the act of selling, or street signs or the fishes at the wet market take on significance and mystery that those who live there no longer notice. As I was showing the pictures I took at the market to my friend who was born and who lived in Okinawa all her life, laughed and asked “Why did you take pictures of these? These are ordinary things!”

The public market as the heartbeat of the city

But this disconcerting feeling of otherness is not entirely unpleasant. Some of it I welcome. I am anonymous. I can be someone else. I remember a Luis Joaquin Katigbak story of a man who lost his wallet and went around the mall trying on new identities. I can be someone and can look at myself from an outsider’s perspective and see what I have become. It was my birthday, and therefore was ripe for some introspection (the character on the story was having his birthday as well by the way). And this is what I have come to conclude: The steps that brought me here, in this place, at this time did not happen just because of sheer happenstance. Other things came into play. It was a result of a process that took years in the making – the tentative friendships and connections that were made, the opportunities for growth, the providential hand of Him who is the architect of our lives, and many others. We are the sum total of moments and specific details that only belong to us, and yet are connected, woven to a tapestry of human existence. Can you separate yourself from all these circumstances that made you who you are? I do not think it is possible nor advisable. I am who I am, regardless of unfamiliarity and otherness, shaped, hewn and carved from my very own contextual existence that is bounded by time and space, and yet an essence of transcendence becomes an integral part of my life. And these become the molecules and the moments of the kaleidoscope that make up these sensory revelations.

Perfect way to end a perfect day: a double flat tire on our way home, near midnight. My sympathies to our new-found friend, Tracy whose car needed two brand-new tires and rim. That's Tita Joyce Gray, co-adventurer in the land of the rising sun.

Tears for a Fallen Prophet

2008-01-03T09:01:00.000+08:00

I weep for you, my fallen prophet – you whose inner demons continue to haunt you and drive you toward the path of chemical oblivion that overshadows the best parts of you. I weep for you, not because of your casual betrayals, but for the gentle boy within you, lost, scarred and unloved. What wounds do you carry so that your appetite for self-destruction is both an act of retribution and redemption? Does the pain you inflict upon yourself a punishment for you or for whomever it is that you harbor anger against? Or are you escaping some harrowing part of you that only the haze of substance alchemy can erase? The copious tears you shed – does each drop signify a recognition of your helplessness, or are they pining for that which you have lost or never had? Fallen prophet, you confound me.

There are times when you become this man with dark secrets and whose eyes have seen too much, but there are moments when you become the boy you were once, pining for a toy you could not have. Then these two images combine, and like LEGO parts that scatter into thousand pieces, you are reduced to this mockery of what you could be. The poverty in your heart cannot be erased by the wealth that is now at your disposal. Your own private world of excess cannot seem to compensate to the dearth condition that cripple and gnaw at you long after the pangs of hunger is satiated.

You have no idea how much your words have given insight to me. You have no idea how much your random acts of kindness are gentle rebukes to my jaded, cynical heart, and yet still, you have no idea how much I fear the inevitable result of this path you are hell bent on following. Your fragile, sensitive soul cannot take much more of this damage. Something will give, and for this, I weep. Wake up from this perilous stupor!

1 Samuel 1: 27-28

Of Exotic Umlauts and Cedillas

2008-01-01T12:56:00.000+08:00

“I had an itch to roam. I wanted to wander through Europe, to see movie posters for films that would never come to England, gaze wonderingly at billboards and shop notices full of exotic umlauts and cedillas…hear pop songs that could not by even the most charitable stretch of the imagination be a hit in any country but their own, encounter people whose lives would never again intersect with mine, be hopelessly unfamiliar with everything, from the working of a phone to the identity of a foodstuff.”

“Is there anything, apart from a really good chocolate cream pie and receiving a large unexpected check in the mail, to beat finding yourself at large in a foreign city on a fair spring evening, loafing along unfamiliar streets in the long shadows of a lazy sunset, pausing to gaze in shop windows or at some church or lovely square or tranquil stretch of quayside, hesitating at street corners to decide whether that cheerful and homey restaurant you will remember fondly for years is likely to lie down this street or that one? I just love it. I could spend my life arriving each evening in a new city.”

Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There

2007 had been a banner year for me, travel-wise. I have been to different places, to distant and not so distant lands. There has always been a compulsion for me to travel and see new places. One of my earliest memories was I riding on my dad’s car going off to somewhere. I remember the enjoyment, and the excitement. It might not have been some far-away place- but I vividly recall the act of traveling itself, and that is embedded in my subconscious as a pleasant thing. In a parallel universe, I could be a travel writer, or just simply an explorer. I could be the Filipino Paul Theroux or Bill Bryson.

The destination does not have to be some exotic location or some foreign lands, but the joy of discovery and sojourn has always been delight for me. It does not matter if the journey is just a neighboring town, or a nearby spot. I find that the travel itself as well as the place brings floods of delight. Here is a secret joy: there is great pleasure in the few moments just after you arrive at some destination where the hustle and bustle of traveling has just stopped, and you have just stepped out for the first time. I treasure those few silent moments when the air is pregnant with expectation as you find yourself in some unfamiliar territory. There is something exhilarating as you scan the vast scenic panorama before you, knowing you are seeing these for the first time. The joy does not vary – whether I have just arrived in some distant land with turban and robe-clad denizens, or at some sleepy town just south of Tacurong.

The names of the places I’ve been to this year are still ringing in my ears, and there is an almost primeval gut reaction whenever I hear of them…there is that knowledge that I’ve been there, and I have seen them with my own eyes. A nostalgia powerful as laughter sweeps over me, and I smile. There is a fondness and a longing for these places, people, scents, flavors, textures and moments that are now forever gone. It is odd, but you remember the small things that sum up your total experience - the taste of that Turkish coffee sipped in the middle of the desert - the way the wind had caressed your face as you looked down a ravine you have only taken time to look even if you've past it so many times - the sound of chatter in an unfamiliar language, but in the heart of it you actually understand.

There is a sadness too, for these places and the people that you meet may never cross your path again, but even so, you know that your life is enriched just because you saw and met them. They mark chapters in one’s life, a memory etched that one can return to. Traveling becomes a metaphor for the leave-taking and the arrivals of one’s life journey.

So, by way of a New Year’s resolution, I aim to travel more, explore more, and enjoy these exotic, and not so exotic scenes.

Here’s to kinder moments and fiercer love, to brief sadness and even shorter grief, to reminiscing, laughter, regrets and tears, to travels and adventures, to beaches and mountain tops, to the great city destinations and far-flung paradise, to sunrises and sunsets, to coffee, books, and movies, to family and friends, and most especially to God!

Happy New Year!!!!

My Shelfari Bookshelf

2007-12-07T15:12:00.000+08:00

Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog

Lost and Replaced

2007-12-05T13:16:00.000+08:00

The past week has been kind of harrowing for me - a busy schedule, an emergency trip to Mindanao (details to follow), and as if it was not enough, last Monday, while lining up for a taxi at SM Baguio, someone felt free to rid me of my cellphones.

Gaaaah!!!

So I am now rebuilding my phone book. I still have my old number but I lost all of your numbers my friends. Please text me your number so I can resume my normal routine of sending you my brilliant random thoughts, quotes and jokes...

Two Tags from Beng

2007-11-13T13:45:00.001+08:00

Tag 1:

I'm a fan of Savage Chickens (www.savagechicken.com). His brand of humor is ascerbic, twisted and witty - just the way i like it, hence one of his drawings.

Tag 2:

1.Can you name one person who made you laugh last night? Saul Samante, one of my students
2. What were you doing at 0800? Teaching my preaching laboratory class. It starts 7:30 and ends 8:30, so in fact I was in the middle of all of it.3. What were you doing 30 minutes ago? Signing a bunch of memos
4. What happened to you in 2006? Sooooo many things happened in 2006, but foremost is my appointment to become Academic Dean.
5. What was the last thing you said out loud? “You there! Stop cheating!” – I was trying out the newly acquired portable public address system.
6. How many beverages did you have today? 1 can of diet pepsi, three glasses of water, and just about now I am dying to have coffee.
7. What color is your hairbrush? Silvery grey
8. What was the last thing you paid for? DVDs from my suking pirate last night.
9. Where were you last night? Tried out the new dimsum place along Session road, then visited my friendly neighborhood pirate.
10. What color is your front door? Brown
11. Where do you keep your change? In my pocket, but I take them out as soon as I'm at my office/house/room.
12. What’s the weather like today? Sunshiny – quite unusual for Baguio at this time of the year.
13. What’s the best ice-cream flavor? Vanilla
14. What excites you? Teaching, preaching, reading a good book (especially if it is a treasure found at booksale, etc.), good company.
15. Do you want to cut your hair? I postpone my haircut trips as long as I can. I’ve never been a fan of barbers. Since I was a boy, I find haircuts are never enjoyable for me
16. Are you over the age of 25? Yup.
17. Do you talk a lot? Depends on the mood, the company or the situation.
18. Do you watch the O.C.? NEVER! Oh ok, maybe once in a while, but never entire episodes.
19. Do you know anyone named Steven? Yes, a few of them in fact.
20. Do you make up your own words? All the time
21. Are you a jealous person? No, nothing to be jealous about.
22. Name a friend whose name starts with the letter ‘A’. Allan, Alan
23. Name a friend whose name starts with the letter K. Hmmm….none that I can think of right now.24. Who’s the first person on your received call list? Kuya Dante Velasco
25. What does the last text message you received say? “With fear and trembling with very refined words- hahaha – I disapproved ________’s paper.”
26. Do you chew on your straw? Chew on it, bite on it, fold it, tie it up, etc.
27. Do you have curly hair? No
28. Where’s the next place you’re going to? SM for grocery shopping
29. Who’s the rudest person in your life? I can think of several
30. What was the last thing you ate? Lunch
31. Will you get married in the future? Next question please….
32. What’s the best movie you’ve seen in the past 2 weeks? Pan’s Labyrinth
33. Is there anyone you like right now? A few
34. When was the last time you did the dishes? It’s been a while
35. Are you currently depressed? No…more like irritated about something (someone)
36. Did you cry today? No.
37. Why did you answer and post this? Because Beng asked me, and no one refuses Beng.
38. 5 people you tag next? Olive, Nechie, Alex, and others...

Irony

2007-11-13T11:42:00.000+08:00

Something deep within us makes us want to remember and at the same time, to forget the tender yet violent passing of the moments that is etched in the lines of our faces that are now gashes of eternity. Something in us urges us to move on – to be stronger than what we are now, to harden the heart, and to never look back. We do not want to be tied up, nor do we want anything to hold us back. We want to resolutely fix our eyes outward, onward, and forget what we had gladly shaken off. Yet something in us wants to give in to the gentle voice that calls us to return, and it takes all that we have to resist it, knowing that at any given time, we shall succumb to it, and the moment we do so, we are undone.

Something in us rebel against the idea of being in process. We do not like the idea of change. The mere hint that we are unfinished chafes at us, and irritates us. It offends our sensibilities. We do not like to admit that some part of us, some portion needs to be worked on. This fear, this negative perception negates the very claim of our fixedness. Yet, somehow, deep within us, we sense our unfinished being; portions of who we are that need fixing, parts that remain unworked on. We are somehow aware that something in us, somewhere in us longs for a master builder to complete us, to work in us and to chip away all that is not us, and to reveal within us a masterpiece waiting to be unveiled. We want stability but sense our incompleteness.

Where do you go when you want to leave and yet at the same time you want so badly to remain, to stay so close that every breath, every intake of air is amplified, and the every beat of your heart crescendos and reverberates as if forever. How does one wait out the rush of desire and yet at the same time the wave of revulsion that passes through you in equal intensity? We find comfort in our fixedness and yet there are times when the right conditions are there, and the moon is ripe when we sense our listless spirits wanting to break through and follow the surge of tides. And once more, we are left with a perplexing truth: there are aspects of who we are that remain inscrutable, and the clues carelessly thrown at us are too vague to be ever grasped, and we are left knee-deep in bewilderment.

Last Quarter Reading List

2007-09-20T14:41:00.000+08:00

I admit, I have been remiss. I haven't had a coherent or barely passable entry in the last few weeks. The creative juices have been channeled somewhere, I guess - what with teaching four subjects this term, plus the administrative demands of being a dean. What a life. Good thing reading's not been a victim in the mad rush of "to do" things. Here's my partial and incomplete list for the next quarter:

1. Graham Greene's The Heart of the Matter - a brooding, melancholic account of a middle-aged man on his inevitable tragic journey.

2. Graham Greene's The Quiet American - I've fallen for Greene's Hemingwayesque cadence and sparseness of narrative. Enthralling.

3. Graham Greene's The Confidential Man - what can i say?

4. Frances Maye's Swan - a story of yet another eccentric and deeply troubled Southern family, but with Maye's own unique twist.

5. Ethan Hawke's Ash Wednesday - can an actor become a novelist too? Apparently yes. This book has been published a few years ago, but it is only now that I have laid of a copy. Cover looks interesting.

6. Paul Gervais' A Garden in Lucca - gardens fascinate me these days - not that i will ever find the time or the ability to pursue it.

7. Nick Hornby's A Polysyllabic Spree - a book about books - what could be more fun?

8. Nick Hornby's 31 Songs - a book about songs - what joy!

9. Re-reading: Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being - the quest for a meaningful existence continues...

10. Kent Haruf's The Ties That Bind - Haruf has captivated me when I first read Plainsong. Set in rural America, there is something beautiful about the way Haruf describes the rich but hard life of farmers.

Unsavored Moments

2007-08-23T08:24:00.000+08:00

For you - whose revelations surprised me.

You are about shelves of books read, loved and yet never discussed. You are all about clever conversations that never take place, and witty repartees that remain unsparred. You are all about awkward silences when a dam burst of dreams and a torrent of words threaten to undo you and dissolve you into millions of molecules. You are all about sitting alone at night waiting for sleep to take over, while perfect lives on the television mock the bareness you feel. And in the nights where you sit in that chair that has become a cocoon, you revel in moments that never take place, and go to places you’ve never been, and to touch the hands you will never touch.

I ask you to leave that chair, and stand up. I ask you to open the veritable feast that is your mind. Share it. Open up. I do not mean you give up your private world. It is yours. Revel in it. Only allow us in once in a while. Let us savor the words you so long to speak, and allow us to be flabbergasted by the outrageousness of your ideas, or be amazed by the brilliance that your eyes can barely hide, or. Let us turn off that infernal television, and let us share cups of coffee, and converse up to the wee hours of the night, and let us laugh. Let us laugh until our bellies ache, and our tears roll. Let us stay up until we have said what we have wanted to say, and until we said the things we never intended to say.

Here, take me hand. Let me hold yours.

Troubador

2007-08-01T16:21:00.000+08:00

I was just a new Christian in the early 90's when I heard this haunting song (i wish i had an mp3 of this song), and it spoke to me in ways that enriched me and captivated me. john michael talbot was sublime in his singing...truly a troubador for the Lord.

Would You Crucify Him
By John Michael Talbot

Sometimes, in the cool of the evenin’
Truth comes like a Lover in the wind
Sometimes, when my thoughts have gone misleadin’
She asks that same old question once again…

Would you crucify Him
Would you crucify Him…, my religious friend?
Would you crucify Him…, talking ’bout the sweet Lord Jesus
If He’d walk right here among you once again?

She’s askin’, How many times have you looked down to the harlot
Lookin’ through her tears, pretendin’ you don’t know?
For once you were just like her, how can you be now so self righteous
When in the name of the Lord you throw the first stone

So now I turn to you through your years of your robes and stained-glass windows
Do you vainly echo your prayers “to please the Lord?”
Profess the Marriage with your tongue, while your mind dreams like the harlot
But if the Judge looks to your thoughts can’t you guess your reward?

Yet how many times have you quoted from your Bible
To justify your eye for your eye and your tooth for your tooth?
You say that He didn’t mean what He was plainly sayin’
But like the Pharisee, my friend, you’re an educated fool!

And somehow, I think I’d crucify Him

I think I’d crucify him, me and my own friends

I think we’d crucify him, talkin’ bout the Sweet Lord Jesus

If he came and lived among us once again.

Aurora Ponce dela Fuente

2007-07-21T12:08:00.000+08:00

My mom and dad

In her 40’s, at a time when she was enjoying the best of life – a thriving medical practice, a faithful husband who is also successful in his career as a public servant, and children sent off to good schools, - at a time when everything is bright and full of zest, my mother, Aurora, was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. I was there alone with her in her hospital room when the doctor told her just how advanced her cancer was. I saw the expression on her face the moment she heard it. I felt helpless –but at that time, at age 15, I didn’t fully comprehend what it all meant. I couldn’t grasp the seriousness and the severity of the situation. All I could think of was that my mother will get better, that there has been a mistake, and soon enough the cancer will be cleared completely. I foolishly thought that I could just will it to be, that all will be well. In my youthful naiveté, I felt an optimism far more than the situation or the evidence would warrant. Only slowly have I come to realize the severity of my mother’s condition. The initial optimism wore off, and an unshakeable feeling of desperation and hopelessness settled.

The church where my parents were part of, friends from all over all expressed their support. Messages of hope poured in—and we welcomed each one. “Your mother will be healed,” some said with finality, as though God Himself had spoken. Bible studies, prayer times, words of comfort came. And we drank all words of assurance and comfort as if life depended on it. After more than a year of chemotherapy, medication, specialists, and living on hope and prayers, my mother was finally declared cancer free. “God has answered our many prayers. Our nightmare has ended. Now we can forget the whole thing and get on with our lives,” we began to say to ourselves, and to our friends. That Christmas, there was a sweetness in the air that have been experienced before. My mother insisted we would have a family picture taken. She was looking radiant in her peach dress, and her smile was just as bright and beautiful in that family portrait. We had no idea it was going to be our last family portrait with her. In my ignorance, I sighed with relief. Life was going to go back to the way it was, I thought. Thank God.

Then, a few months after she was declared cancer-free, my mother began to feel excruciating pain on her back. Turns out, the cancer came back, and came back strong. The cancer has now spread to her bones, to her liver, to her lungs. More treatments, more pain, more days and nights wondering what is going to happen. Raised and dashed hopes. Unanswered prayers. No more promises of healing. April to May of 1987, we were brought to Manila to be with her as she underwent cobalt radiation. Every morning, my father would wake us up just before they’d bring her to the hospital, and we’d pray. We’d hold hands together and raise our prayers to God. I felt we were in the very presence of God, in that small apartment we were staying at that sweltering summer. When June came, we were sent back to Cebu since classes were about to begin, and my parents also went back to Mindanao to recuperate.

But one Friday morning in July, my parents arrived in Cebu. My mother was worse. She wanted to die with her family members present. She wanted to be her with children, with her mother and siblings one last time. We brought her to the hospital, but all the doctors can do was to provide comfort in her last days. Painkillers in massive amount were administered to ease her pain. She soon lapsed into a coma, only to gain consciousness briefly to talk with her elder brother. My uncle said they reminisced about their childhood days, friends they knew and the happy times when they were growing up. Then at 10:00 pm just after we lef the hospital to go home to rest, Tuesday, July 21, 1987, my uncle called us from the hospital to tell us that my mother has passed away. The two years of struggle from time she was diagnosed to have cancer up to the last minute of her life was over. The overwhelming feelings of despair, hope, discouragement and strength enveloped with fevered prayers and passionate bargaining with God led us to a circuitous roller coaster ride of emotions finally concluded. Life as we knew it was officially over too. But paradoxically, the feeling we spent the most time with was an unexpected one: gratitude.

Now, how can one feel gratitude in the face of all these problems? Against insurmountable odds, against a situation that will eventually result in death, why gratitude? How could we feel possibly grateful? Of course only a cruel fool would feel thankful for the diagnosis of cancer. We were not as masochistic as that. What I meant was during the most terrible of times, during the times when the cancer was at its most painful episode, we as a family huddled together in a closeness that was intimate and comforting, and for that we were grateful. We were grateful we had each other. We were grateful because of the support, the love and the provision we have received. We were grateful for God's affirming presence.In those early morning prayer times we spend as a family, we experienced a bond that was rare, even if we as a family were already close to each other. In the afternoons when my mother would try to recover from the cobalt radiation, we would be together and enjoyed each other’s company, and there was a feeling of peace and tranquility, like a soft shroud, enveloping us – and while sadness would descend at the most inappropriate times, we feel this quiet, powerful sense of love. It would kiss us in this tender moment, almost like a prayer, almost like a love song.

Despite her pain, my mother was a model of strength, courage and grace. She did not complain. She did not rage. She of all people deserved the best, but what she got was this unfairness. However, she was remained resolute in her faith. She would wake up in the morning with a smile that has always been her best feature. Although we feel her pain, she would hide from us the ugliest moments when cancer would ravage her body. Her faith was unflagging. She would pray – but not for her – for us – that we would be strong, that we would have faith, that we will be good no matter what life may bring. In the last letter I received from her, she was full of motherly advise. In that letter, she wrote about her hopes and aspirations for each one of us. In the midst of her pain, she found time to advise and remember to remind me of the most mundane of things. She was like that. Strong, graceful, beautiful. For this, we felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude – for her, for God who gave her to us albeit briefly, for our family.

That was twenty years ago. Today we mark her 20^th death anniversary. Life as we knew it changed – but not entirely for the worse. For even in the most painful of times, there are things we can be grateful about. I wish my mother didn’t die that early. There are times I wished life could have turned out differently, but it is what it is. And I rest in the kindness and mercy of God who holds us in His hands with tender care.

Poetic Influence

2007-07-12T09:31:00.000+08:00

The sheer poetry of Joey Ayala's song lends enchantment and beauty that feels and sounds like nature itself is serenading you. There was a time in my life when i was younger and fancied myself a poet that all i would do is listen to the beauty of his songs and its captivating lyrics. Great talent, that man.

Walang ibang sadya

Words and music by Joey Ayala

aanhin ang mata kung walang mapagmasdang

sayaw sa indayog ng talahiban
aanhin ang tenga kung hindi mapakinggan
ang awit ng hangin sa punong-kahoy
aanhin ang labi kundi madampian
ng ulan o di kaya'y mahagkan ng ilog
pagmasdan, pakinggan, lasapin ang mundo
walang ibang sadya ang ayos nito

bulaklak sa paanan naghihintay ng pansin
ano pa ang buhay niya kundi mo langhapin
ang bato sa batis - kinis niya'y masasayang
kundi mo mahaplos ang pisngi niyang alay
anhin pa ang balat kundi maramdaman
ang lambing ng araw at ang sariwang simoy
langhapin, haplusin, pansinin ang mundo
walang ibang sadya ang ayos nito

ganoon din ang tao - nang siya'y mahalin
ang tanging pangarap, tanging katuparan

Casual Death

2007-06-29T09:45:00.000+08:00

The casual betrayals finally caused the walls of this once-secured bond to crumble into million pieces. The lies, the pinpricks of jabs and harmless insults, the disloyalties that were supposed to be inconsequential became the culprit – and if asked as to what caused the break-up, one would be hard pressed to point to a specific event, place, or memory. It just finally became too overwhelming, too much. Suddenly, as if drained with life, the heart gave in. Suddenly, the eyes that have seen too much hurt refused to see. Suddenly, just like that, the lights went off, and the silence that follows is a comfort that soothes and the darkness a warm embrace. Suddenly, a vacuum have sucked the vitality and the attraction that was already fragile from the start. Now, bereft, stunned – a look of puzzlement comes fleetingly. Now, relieved, as if a burden far too heavy, carried and endured all these times is lifted.

Old

2007-06-28T13:21:00.000+08:00

There are some days that one feels sooooo ancient...

When You are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats

Baguio and My Rainy Season Reading List

2007-06-11T15:50:00.000+08:00

The rains have come once more. And I say this with restraint joy and quiet peace. This is my favorite time of the year here in Baguio. It typifies for me this place. If I have to think of a singular piece of time that I can call a “Baguio moment,” it will be like this picture I hurriedly took with my low-tech camera phone: cool breeze, foggy, and with the rain clouds just ready to pour forth a shower of blessing. Did I mention a strong brewed coffee at hand? Perfect.

a view of Burnham park on a foggy, almost rainy day

My list won’t be very long. I am teaching four courses this term, and so this means I am also reading my usual textbook readings plus student’s papers, among others, therefore my reading fare will expectedly not be extensive. My rainy season reading list:

1. The Complete Collection of Emily Dickinson’s Poetry – This spinster/loner/enigmatic poet captures just the right restraint of words that convey so much. Perfect for a rainy day.

2. Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain – An intensely active and brilliant young man decides to leave it all behind to become a Trappist monk (and wrote very deep and meaningful thoughts on spirituality) – a monk who forsakes all worldly goods, who will vow to be in silence and work with his hands, and then writes his autobiography. Now, wouldn’t that be interesting?

3. Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys - I don't have a copy of this book yet, but on my next trip to Manila, this will definitely be on my list of things to get.

Dispatches from Araby, Part 4: Sights, Sounds, Tastes, Smells

2007-05-16T13:30:00.000+08:00

I. Old Dubai

The labyrinthine passages that are portals to another world beckons, its charms irresistible. The intricate woodwork that make the walkways of the souks casts patterns of shadows that reveal and hide the secrets that only wait to be discovered. It is a heady mixture of arabesque details and the sheen of polished steel of modernity. It is a place to get lost in, it is a place to be found. It is a place of trade, and it is a place that seemed virtually unchanged since the beginning of the civilization by the serpentine creek. The souks of Old Dubai is where merchants ply a wide array of goods – spices, scents, cloths, ornaments, jewelry, and of course. Gold! In this place, all that glitter is actually gold. Ropes and ropes of it. Tons and tons of it. While a thousand tourists gawk and stare, you will feel that this is not a place made for tourists. It is a vein- a jugular – that beats and throbs with the very life of a people steeped in tradition but with a passion for the newest, the latest and the most advanced. One gets a sense that while some stores have given way to selling tacky souvenir items for tourists, these souks are a latticed window that afford a very brief glimpse to the soul of these people.

The spices and the herbs, the aroma it exudes harkens to an archaic past, where henna-decorated hands deftly scoops and mixes a heady mixture of potions both magical and enchanting. An old Arab man sits by his baskets and sacks of a wide variety of spices - cardamoms, dates, anise, powdered chilis, various seeds, cinnamon, and others, all intriguing and exotic, his image seemingly etched in stone, a visitation from the past. His prayer beads are fingered with a meticulousness and tenderness that is both surprising and charming. Three women completely covered in black look at his wares, scooping and smelling, with his complete encouragement and gentle coaxing. Are they on an errand to prepare for a banquet? What kind of food will they prepare? How will it taste? Very private, these people hardly invite outsiders into their home, and thus the answers will be a mystery.

Outside the air has a crisp feel to it. The soaring temperature (52degrees Celsius at one point) stuns those who brave the heat, the sun shines with a brightness that is harsh and unforgiving. According to a statistics, the city is undergoing the construction of 300 hundred high rises, including what will be touted as the tallest building in the world, changing by sheer force not only the skyline and the face of Dubai, but also its coastlines as islands are birthed through ingenuity and braggadocio of a people who has learned to live with and reign over a ruthless desert. Meanwhile, the perfumed air of the souks continue to exist as if warped in time, ancient and unmindful of the mad dash to recreate and remake the world out there.

Would you eat here?

2007-05-13T20:52:00.000+08:00

Even if they serve the best food around, would you consider eating here?

Dispatches from Araby, part 3: The Desert

2007-05-07T16:17:00.000+08:00

Location: The Middle East, stretching from Yemen to the Arabian Gulf and Oman to Jordan and Iraq
Size: 1 million square miles
Type: hot subtropial
Features: world's largest expanse of unbroken sand, red dunes, rocky highlands

What makes a desert a desert? Extensive sand dunes? A lack of water? Scarcity of life?

In fact, none of these factors defines an area as a desert. Extreme aridity is the defining characteristic of a desert.

A desert is a place where more water is lost through evaporation than is gained from precipitation. Typically, most of the world’s deserts receive less than 10 inches of rain annually, because high mountains or trade winds block clouds.

Many desert dwellers have developed interesting ways to cool off and to conserve water, such as the saguaro cactus of the Sonoran Desert and the kangaroo of Australia’s deserts.

The intense aridity that makes deserts hostile to life has created a unique environment for spiritual growth and renewal. Blue skies, bright light, dry air, wide-open vistas, harsh landscapes, and isolation help to make the desert an attractive place for reflection, contemplation, meditation, and prayer. Stars, sun, moon, wind, and rocks are one’s companions in the desert.Today the desert areas of the Middle East are often associated with war. However, for most of the past 4,000 years these same deserts have provided inspiration to great Western spiritual geniuses, such as Abraham, Moses, David, Isaiah, John the Baptist, Jesus, St. Anthony, St. Benedict...*

The desert beckons me. I am drawn to it in the same way I am drawn to the sea. For in its inscrutable vast expanse lies buried the secrets of a million years. It undulates in the graceful rhythms of the winds. It ripples and shimmers in a way that a belly dancer could only try to recapture. The soft orange sand dunes is like the ocean; its constant heaving and surging is a heartbeat; its hues deceptively invite you and beguile you to wallow in it, but the fiery depths will undo you in ways that are both tender yet violent. Everything around you is vividly etched – the sky an impossible shade of blue, the air sharp and biting, the whiteness of the kandura worn by the desert men shine with a brightness that capture the distillation of the sun. The soft strides of the camel are languorous, and hypnotic; the soft sand yields to your footstep, and beckons you to go deeper -a clever disguise to the menace of the grainy sea before you.

I am drawn to the desert. In the same way I am drawn to the sea, I am drawn to the desert. For like the sea, the desert harkens to something ancient in all of us. It is a place where everything that is unessential is stripped away. It is a place where the hardiest and the most resilient can survive. And like the sea, the desert’s vastness humbles us. And while the sharp blasts of warm air comfort us, it ultimately brings a warning: there are forces far beyond our grasp and our comprehension. But while these forces can undo us, He who controls the rhythms of the desert, is tender and compassionate, and touches us in ways that will not break us.

My heartfelt gratitude to the Aguilar family who took me not only to the Arabian desert but also to the edge of the Arabian sea (another story). Thank you for your generosity and kindness!

*from http://www.desertspirituality.com/tools/default.asp

Dispatches from Araby Part 2

2007-04-29T22:51:00.000+08:00

Dubai, 7:00p.m.

Of the gladdest moments in human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of Habit, the leaden weight of Routine, the cloak of many Cares and the slavery of Home, one feels once more happy. The blood flows with the fast circulation of childhood... A journey, in fact, appeals to Imagination, to Memory, to Hope, -the three sister graces of our moral being.

- Sir Richard Francis Burton, 1856

At the busines distric of Dubai along the Sheik Zayed Road

There is something surreal in the flashy, spanking new buildings and infrastructures that dot this desert country. Like mirages that shimmer and threaten to disappear when you touch it, the tall, glass and steel buildings mesmerize and tantalize. Everywhere constructions are going on, a mad rush to build the biggest, the tallest, the fanciest. The intricate yet efficient roadways remind me of the wooden lattice archways so common in traditional Arabic dwelling places. Dubai has a feverish feel to it, like being kissed by the sun too long and too often. It is a throbbing sea of humanity. It is a heady cocktail of clashing cultures, the sophisticated and the ancient. The kandura-clad men, the women disguised in black abayas, the Indians in their saris and kurtas, the expats in their business suits, and the scantily clad tourists mingle seemingly oblivious to the irony of their existence, and only add to the arabesque atmosphere. I am drawn to it, but at the same time I want to observe it from a safe distance fearing I will be sucked into its vortex and never to be seen again.

Al Seef Mall, with small blue and white mosque in foreground

It is my 5^th day here, and already I am affected by this beguiling emirate, for it is charming and audacious. But I haven’t explored all of Dubai. I feel there is so much more to see, hear, taste, and feel, and my days here will not be enough. But one thing I will definitely valiantly try to imbibe is the various food offerings available. Lebanese, Persian, Indian, Western, Arabian: these are a few of gustatory delights and gastronomic fares available. For I believe that Clinton Palanca was right when he pontificated about traveling. He advises, “"The best and only way to appreciate and understand a city is to sit, stroll, or simply live and allow the city to come to you, not through your mind but through your senses; not through your action but by the city's own volition, alighting on you almost imperceptibly as you sit perfectly still...Then you eat. If you have chosen wisely, and if it's a chef who knows what he is doing, you will be doing nothing less than eating a distillation of the city, its culture, its inhabitants; its very soul.”

At a spanking new mall where they built an artificial canal around the perimeter where one can take gondola rides. Surreal. Adding to the surreality of the experience is the fact that the place where this mall is standing on was a bone-dry desert once upon a time.

Dispatches from Araby, Part 1

2007-04-26T13:11:00.000+08:00

Manila, April 25, 2007, 7:21am

The airport is teeming with people. It is as if they cannot wait to get out of this place, this broiling country teeming with political intrigues and “only-in-the-Philippines” moments (a case in point: upon checking in, I was asked if I had a photocopy of my passport and visa. I don’t. Have it photocopied, the helpful attendant said. The Bureau of Immigration needs it. Of course, I complied. But where to find a photocopier machine? Oh, you need to go out of the airport, walk about a kilometer under the hellish heat of the sun, and hope that the copier is available, not to mention I was carrying a very heavy backpack. Since I didn’t have a choice, I walked, in my mind committing all sorts of cruelty to hapless bureaucrats. When I got to the Bureau of Immigration counter, after walking under the heat of the sun, I volunteered my photocopied documents. I mean I walked and endured all those hassles just so I can present these precious copies. “We don’t need it,” the officer said. WHAT?! Exactly.) There is an air that is not exactly festive, but somehow an aura of intensity as the thought of escaping who knows what and for whatever reason envelopes the hall, an illicit feeling that captivates and enthralls. It absolutely vibrates with an energy that infects and excites.

I am waiting for my time to check in. The bus I took from Baguio to Manila was fast, and thus I am too early for my flight. So I sit here, and observe the people around.

Many of the people here are Overseas Filipino Workers. I overhear (eavesdrop?) conversations among compatriots, exchanging notes on their previous work experiences and expectations. I shall no longer rail against the plight of the Filipinos, etc. I have found it an exercise in futility. I instead offer a prayer of blessings to them – that grace, strength and wisdom may abound in them, and may God’s provision be upon them as this is what they are seeking.

There is also the ubiquitous pairing of older Caucasian males and much younger Filipinas. Again, I will no longer rail and flail and rant. Enough has already been said.

Being here at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport almost has a ritual significance – a rite of passage of sort. This cavernous, out of date airport becomes a sacred space – a place of liminality, where the hero is first immersed into the world s/he will take on as part of his/her journey. The airplane becomes womb that nourishes and prepares the hero for when s/he emerges, a universe will behold him. A world that is far different from his/her own world.

Many of us are on a quest. The search for the boon – OFWs, mail-order brides, and travelers like me who find that in travel there are moments of transcendence and beauty becomes as important as the destination itself. We emerge from this dream-like experience renewed and if not, made more complete.

Ouch!!!!

2007-04-12T16:51:00.000+08:00

Wake Up

2007-04-12T16:17:00.000+08:00

The memories of the tastes and sounds and textures of moments take us back to something primordial, something so ancient and holy we are left with a wonder that is almost childlike. But no matter how enchanting the past is, we know with a irrevocable wisdom, there is no going back, this much is true. Nevertheless, the possibility of reliving that slice of time forever gone is nothing short of captivating. However, these visitations should not be our main preoccupation, for the paradox of living the moment and reliving moments that has already dissolved in the past is a chasm we must learn to stand astride with deftness.

This is our moment. The only moment we have in fact. While it is possible at some point in the future to look back at this particular grain of time, we come alive knowing that this breath, this second is ours and this moment is who we are, what we are and whatever we were and will be coalesce in this instance, never to be repeated or copied ever again. And so we drink it, draw it in like the sharp intake of fog at dawn, the sheer purity and freshness erases whatever angst we feel, its sudden zest brings tears to our eyes. It is like a splash of frigid water on our faces, and we let out a barbaric yawp, taking full claim of this existence.

"So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."
Psalm 90:12

Back in the Day

2007-04-03T14:58:00.000+08:00

"No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too, but then the times get to them, and they wear out their brains learning what folks expect, and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks."

Annie Dillard

The season for youth camps is here again. I am sure all over the country organizations, groups, especially churches are preparing for yearly events like this. Right in the campus where I am, one group is doing theirs during the week. While this particular camp is going on, I have houseguests whom I went to youth camps with a gazillion years ago, and a flurry of nostalgic reminiscing soon went underway for us (and of course remembering all the “characters” that figured in our days in the sun back in the day). We stayed up late talking, laughing and sharing vivid memories of one of the most truly enjoyable and meaningful times growing up. There is just something about youth camps (in spite of bad food, uncomfortable bedding accommodations, ripe body odor coming from some of the hygienically deprived campers) that becomes a significant factor in one’s life. The warrior games we played, the songs we sang, the friends we met once a year (although they are as precious as friends we see more often).

I remember it was not just fun and games. Youth camps can be a time and place to assess one’s life (and no one is too young to through a bout of self-autopsy). There were times at worship when I felt especially intimate with the Lord – back at a time when I had doubts about God. Youth camps became a time for me to grow deeper in my faith. I for one have made several life-changing and serious decisions about my life through in the (Christmas and summer) youth camps I have attended and lead

As expected, the attendees of this particular camp are mostly teenagers –high school and college students. Fresh, and enthusiastic, they are achingly young and somehow very optimistic -as we had been nearly 20 years ago. We were like them too in many aspects. Just discovering what life is all about, we were optimistic and in many ways naïve. Things have changed of course, as is inevitable. We are less optimistic now, more jaded, and perhaps even scarred in so many places. For many of us, life did not turn out to be the way we wanted it to be. We’re not the same people anymore, as the song would put it, but had it not been for the youth camps, and the lessons we’ve learned from them, we could have ended up worse.

While we shared the laughter and the fond memories, my friends and I as recalled the times when we were younger, freer to laugh, more playful, we know also that those times are gone forever. There is no going back, of course. Even if it were possible, I would not consider going back to where I had been, which is not to say that I do not appreciate what was. In fact, it is very precious. Nevertheless, the best way to honor the past is continue on looking forward, moving on.

While on the topic of pasts, I recently visited the venue of many of our youth camps before. Right in front of the mess hall, and where there was some sort of a verandah, there used to be a stately acacia tree that had been a silent witness to the many things that transpired during camps: the games, the fellowship, the friendships made, the tentative love affairs that blossomed for some into marriages, among others. I loved that tree. That tree is now gone. The current camp director said it was rotting and it was a safety risk that is why they cut it. No matter what the explanation was, the loss of that tree felt like an amputation. There was a sense of loss that came surprisingly sharp and painful. And so I learned that even if the past is to be left behind, there will be times when pining for things gone is the only appropriate response to a loss.

Summer Reading List '07

2007-03-20T12:05:00.000+08:00

School's over! Yay! I have about 3 weeks of down time, and so hopefully i can catch up on my reading. Here's my summer reading list:

1. Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
2. To Own a Dragon by Don Miller
3. Silence by Sushako Endo
4. The Natural by Bernard Malamud (this will be a re-reading)
5. The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell (a review)
6. Exclusion and Embrace by Miroslav Volf
7. The Sound of Paper by Julia Cameron

While I do read a lot of non-fiction I notice that they never make it to my summer reading list. This year i've included four just to have a more eclectic collection. It's a short list, i know. After all i only have about 3 weeks then it's back to full-time work, travel and more work....

i carry your heart with me

2007-02-28T10:06:00.000+08:00

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Jonel

2007-02-14T15:43:00.000+08:00

I do not know what brought it on, but today I remembered a boy named Jonel. The last time I saw Jonel, I was 10 years old. He was a childhood friend, a classmate of my younger sister actually. He was a big boy for his age. He was popular, and we liked to play with him- we also liked to play with him. He had a sweet nature, and our rambunctious ways may have brought a lot of stress for him, but he would come over and continue to play games with us, even if at times he was the game.

Jonel died suddenly. One day we were playing with him. One day he complained he had a headache. Then suddenly we heard he died. He had meningitis. I think Jonel was the first boy I knew who died – the first person I knew personally who died, in fact. When we heard that he died- we couldn’t believe it. Wasn’t it just a few days ago that he was at our house? My siblings and myself went to his house which was just about 50 meters from where we live. We stood at the gate of his house. It was closed. The house seemed empty, desolate – somehow unreal. We waited for a few minutes, and wondered if he really was dead, but no one was about. In our childhood hopes, we shrugged off the news to be false. But in the evening, our family went to his wake. The air was perfumed by sweet-smelling flowers that I will forever associate with that night. The heat of the 100-watt bulbs around his casket was palpable. There he was-pale, a little frown on his lips –there he was – Jonel, but not Jonel. The reality of his death cannot be denied. I felt a crushing pain that came so suddenly, so surprisingly that I felt bewildered.

I remember him now- for what reason I do not know. But this is what came to me as I remembered that boy from long ago: there is oddness to life and a sense of randomness that confound. What maybe real can feel surreal, and what might be sepia-colored memories can be as in-the-moment as the space and time you now occupy. And in that moment where loss is the inevitable turn of events we let go with ease, knowing that nothing of consequence actually gets away from us.

First Year, Section Benton

2007-02-12T11:02:00.000+08:00

Something in me – no matter how long ago it was, no matter how far it is now – will always remain in I-Benton at the University of the Philippines College Cebu Highschool. As a 12 year old boy who was just finding out how to live away from his parents, it was defining moment for me – for it was during that time that my innocent boyhood bliss was shattered. There I was made to feel small – where the slightest mistake can elicit in my classmates paroxysms of laughter. In an unintentionally cruel way that only children can ever do whatever ounce of confidence I had at that time was completely pulverized. And no matter how long ago it was – no matter how far it is now – there are times and moments in my life that make it seem I’m back in that dingy, termite-infested classroom.

This weekend was a I-Benton experience for me. This weekend I presented a paper at a theological forum where people would come to hear what I had to say. Students, seminary professors, theologians, missiologists, pastors, and many others have attended the forum, and a number actually went to my presentation. The presentation went well. A few questions were asked, and I think I answered them adequately, but I was scared, nervous and just a few notch lower from having a panic attack. Parched throat, profuse sweating, uneven breathing – all symptoms of stress- were part of the pre-presentation moments. Of course I tried to cover my discomfort by making wisecracks (i guess stress brings out the inner clown in me). This was not the first time I’ve presented a paper, nor the first time to stand in a crowd, but I couldn’t help myself. I don’t think there was anything wrong with my paper (well, at least I’d like to think so), but I couldn’t help myself. There are just times when at any moment experiences like this would bring me back to that classroom that seemed so long ago and yet so recent.

Or maybe I’m just in need of therapy or something.

Silence

2007-01-29T10:48:00.000+08:00

"Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull discourses and all foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety as after disappointment; that background which the painter may not doub, be he master or bungler, and which, however awkward a figure we may have made in the foreground, remains ever our inviolable asylum, where no indignity can assail, no personality disturb us."

Henry D. Thoreau,
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers,
The Portable Thoreau, p. 226

Is There More to Life?

2007-01-24T10:08:00.000+08:00

So, I turned a year older...the new term has just begun at our seminary...I am teaching Four (4!) courses (this more than the 2 I am just supposed to teach this term)...plus administrative work...plus I have a paper presentation due in 9 days (and I only halfway through it)...and I need to finish a long delayed series of Sunday School materials (due very, very soon)...

So, should i know the answer to the pop quiz?

Of course. Unequivocally. Unflinchingly. Unabashedly.

My answer? As if there was any doubt, as if there are surprises: YES. Of course there is more to life. Which is not to say that what I have right now is less than what it is to live.

Too busy to philosophize... Gah!

As always, the comic is from the genius of mr. doug savage of www.savagechickens.com

Merry Christmas to all!

2006-12-14T13:13:00.000+08:00

The Embrace of the Past

2006-12-04T08:45:00.000+08:00

Here in your quiescent embrace, here in the blueness of your presence, I find myself strangely constricted, inhibited. It is strange for this moment is supposed to be the most liberating of my days, where every air I inhale fills my pores with the sheer joy of being alive. And yet all I feel are the shards and the splinters of the broken dreams and dashed hopes that have gathered underfoot, scratching me, wounding me. We stand on the hill where aspirations come to die, where hope meets its tragic end- and the stench of dying flowers perfume the air.

No, you cannot count the stars. Not when you are lucid anyway. Not when too many dreams have gone unfulfilled, so many stars just beyond your reach. We have grown up and given up our fairytales and our childlike fantasies. Yet the reality of adulthood, while it has its allure, is hollow and bitter. And while I hear myself mumble incoherent platitudes, they are empty and I no longer find comfort in them. The champagne of our youth have gone flat, and there is now a tinge of desperation in our hysterical laughter, and there is sadness in our eyes that the tricks of our trade could no longer erase or hide. We are coming to the end of our euphoria, and our defiance is a sad, sad thing.

In the paradox of our existence we find ourselves both hating, hated and at the same time loving, loved. I need to find release from your embrace. I need to let you go. You need to let me go. I must move on. I must seek new horizons. Let the fossils of my shattered life become the fuel of my embarkation. Let the ghost of my former life become the wind that blows on my sail.

"But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."

Steeped in Holiness

2006-12-01T17:27:00.000+08:00

"All around us, to right and left, in front and behind, above and below, we have only to go a little beyond the frontier of sensible appearances in order to see the divine welling up and showing through. But it is not only close to us, in front of us, that the divine presence has revealed itself. It has sprung up universally, and we find ourselves so surrounded and transfixed by it, that there is no room left to fall down and adore it, even within ourselves.
By means of all created things, without exception, the divine assails us, penetrates us and moulds us. We imagined it as distant and inaccessible, whereas in fact we live steeped in its burning layers. In eo vivimus. As Jacob said, awakening from his dream, the world, this palpable world, which we were wont to treat with the boredom and disrespect with which we habitually regard places with no sacred association for us, is in truth a holy place, and we did not know it. "

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Away and Moving

2006-11-10T17:42:00.000+08:00

So, I was away for almost a month - from this blog, that is. I have just been so busy, and when I get home all I can do is doze off after watching inane t.v. shows, etc. And the creative juices just ain't flowing. I have no energy to perorate, meander and to just generally think. Gah!

So, I am moving to another house. Again. I moved in to my present house more than a year a go, and now I am in the midst of packing once more. I am moving to a bigger house up the hill (within the same campus) because my new position entails living there. I love this house. They have just finished repairing, repainting and generally just making it ready for me to live there. I love the bigger space. I love the view. It is the highest point in the seminary and so when i look out from my front window, I can see the entire grounds, and the pine trees! Come and visit (but not soon -I still have to move in, make it habitable, at least).

My house will be the lower part of the two-storey house.

I plan to put a table and some lounge chairs on the porch. I am envisioning myself taking a sip of coffee from there after playing a set of tennis at the court just beside the house (no, i don't play tennis, and i don't think i ever will - but allow me to dream, ok?)

Sentinels

2006-10-12T11:51:00.000+08:00

Someone left a toy plastic robot by my stairs. He stands there like a forgotten sentinel - faithful and solitary. His colors are fading, and some of his parts have turned brittle, and yet he continues to stand there. Who put him there? Who is this sentinel? I thought he could use a company, and so I introduced him to a childhood icon of mine, Voltes V. Now he has a friend.

Journal of Religion and Film

2006-10-09T14:56:00.000+08:00

The Journal of Film and Religion, an online journal by University of Nebraska Omaha, has an interesting article for their October, 2006 issue. Check it out! Co-authored with a very good friend, anthropologist and now professor at Wheaton College, Dr. Brian Howell, this paper was actually presented at the Currents in World Christianity conference in Pretoria, South Africa a few years back. Tell me what you think.

Perspectives

2006-09-26T12:45:00.000+08:00

FromSavage Chickens

right here, right now

2006-09-23T18:32:00.000+08:00

These are the days that bring you meaning. These are the times that make life worth the living. These are the moments that you look back on whenever you are asked to think of the happiest times of your life. This is your take-away. This will remind you just how good life can be.