Preparations

I'm gearing up for a mountain climb, hoping to find something up there, something life-changing, or inspiring; something to give me fresh hope, and meaning; something to banish the dark cloud of despondence. Will I?

If my wild side overtakes me, then I just might choose to remain up there, forever, above the clouds, majestic and serene; detached from the chaotic, filthy lowlands.

When I was 5, Heaven was a lot easier to understand. It was simply up there, following me wherever I went. It was so close and natural. I was naive. Five decades later, it has become abstract and, at times, questionable. I now equate earthly happiness with it, the happiness which is becoming rarer in my life.

The mountain may yet reveal something to me. It calls.

Angels

Very recently, I was the recipient of short home movies and photos from my brothers. They are my windows to their world, to their lives, to their happiness and laughter, amidst the fact that our mother is gone, and our father, the remaining pillar of our family, continues to advance in years and on to his date with his destiny; amidst the fact that one of my brothers continues to wage a difficult, uphill, draining battle against his disease. Even with my daily pleadings and prayers, a number of things are unstoppable.

For now, things are holding. Life goes on for them, and for us back here. The connections remain strong. These were forged from collective experiences, from many years of togetherness, from shared ancestry.

My nephews and nieces are all so beautiful. They're angels all. Life beckons to them and holds so much promise. They will probably know me only by name, through being mentioned in passing, or in some vague family tale. Whether they know about me or not is of no major significance. They are a part of me, and I wish them the best, and all the love and happiness this life can offer.

Keeping Dreams

I think I'll
stow my dreams awhile,
but I'll keep them close
in a safe place,
where, on a whim,
I can go over them,
like poring
over old photographs,
with a dull ache, regret,
and longing at times,
with overwhelming
emotions on others.

I'll pass them on to you.

They're never tired,
but I am, quite frankly;
some ends are loose and frayed,
but the luster remains,
is unfaded,

I'll pass on the luster to you.

I've lost the fire,
only survival and wisdom
remain, and the occasional
pining and ambition,
all day to day and short-term,
nothing grand, that I might be
disappointed tomorrow.

They'll never be
out of date or incongruous,
they've helped me through,
they've fetched me memories
both mediocre and grand,

I'll pass on the grand to you.

I'll keep them pristine
and ready, they're yours
if hope and courage you have,
if imagination and ideals
compose your days,
if you find magical the smell
of first rain meeting
scorched earth,
if you can find
gladness out of nowhere,
merely imagining
goodness in people,
if you yearn to be
on a mountain above clouds,
hoping for some
strange peace and joy,
if you will not squander time,
if you can give your all,

I'll pass them all to you.

Secrets

In a way, I look forward to my own demise. I believe that when we die, answers to life's questions are revealed to us; those that nag intelligent and stupid people alike: Like, are heaven and hell real places? What is the design of the universe? Does it end in an edge somewhere, or is it curved, thereby imprisoning us in some sort of vast, magnificent sphere? Death is the great equalizer then. It reveals the answers to life's mysteries with whosoever it grips, whether interested or otherwise, ready or not.


This whole business of life is tiresome, and I look forward to other things. Here, it's either good or bad, virtue or sin, happy or sad, plenty or want, success or failure. Or is this the law of the universe, that even in the afterlife it's either heaven or hell? Is there no in-between bliss, a limbo of untainted joy?


When I finally go, I hope it will be quick and unexpected, with none of that prolonged suffering or drama or grief. I just want to get it over with.

A Skype Chat

I had a morning after-Christmas, online chat with my father and my siblings and their respective families. It was all very pleasant. They just had their wonderful Christmas dinner, were trading banter, and preparing for the major part of the gathering, the opening of gifts. My two nephews and niece did what little children are supposed to do: Provide a backdrop of gleeful chaos and the purest, most innocent laughter. I was once a part of this annual event, some seven Christmases ago when I spent my holidays with them. It was a Christmas like all other joyous family occasions; happiness and laughter overflowed, everyone was there (save for my wife and children who were back home), and thoughts of mortality were farthest from our minds.

Our Mom passed away a month ago, and when the idea of a chat was born, and while we were on it, I was asking myself why we didn't do it before when she was still with us. Perhaps we took things for granted, like we do when we feel that things are in their proper places, with nothing amiss. And when everyone was there and alive and kicking, things indeed were in their proper places.

Mothers and fathers complete families, and when one of them is gone, those left behind reach out to fill the void. We reached out today to fill the space Mom left behind, to complete the circle once more. All good, I should say. Oh, Mom always completed the circle so wonderfully! We always felt secure and complete. She was among life's reliable constants. A bit enigmatic at times, but she was always there. I miss her terribly.

Christmases Past

My Christmas this year is mostly reminiscences of Christmases when I was a child, and up to the time I became a young adult. In those days, the family was complete; everyone was there; our cares were few, life was simpler, the future beckoned, but it could wait.

I often tell my own children that a family's most wonderful times are those when the children are growing up, the family kept together by the strong bond of love. These moments should be savored, and then committed to memory; so that when life or death impose themselves upon those we love, we can summon them and enjoy once more the splendor and happiness they brought us.

I'm grateful that as a child I was made to believe in the supposed existence of Santa Claus. Others may argue that the practice is deceptive, but I think it teaches about anonymous generosity. Most people don't want to remain anonymous when they give. They want to advertise their magnanimity. How else can you explain publicity photos of city and town bureaucrats pointing to donated trash bins, or to roads they have interceded for to get repaired or constructed, or those that show them running to the rescue of the victims of natural and mostly man-made tragedies that visit this archipelago? Our inclination is to be generous and popular.

My Santa Clauses (Yes, I had two!) were two selfless people. More than all the toys I received, their greatest gift was the life lesson that genuine giving does not seek anything in return. I shall always be indebted and grateful to them for the gift that lasts lifetimes.

For My Mother, A Poem

You left quietly
on a Sunday,
on your end, as it was breaking,
on mine, as it was coming
to a close.

Always with fondness
will I recall my first
faltering steps; should I
falter now, you won't be
there

To soothe
my hurt pride, to persuade
me to try again, to assure
my puny, fearful soul
of your permanence.

You, as all good mothers are,
were a gift from God,
for children you saw as
heaven-sent, and not
the little devils we truly were.

You were dutiful
in each thing
you did: We had a mother,
a teacher, a friend,
and my father, a wife.

I will miss you
in many things, places, events
from hereon; and
from hereon as well
I will find you in everything beautiful.