Eternal Rest and The Monsoon

I didn't have to work today, the consequence of the annual monsoon taking on the proportions of a national tragedy. I'm old enough to recall that the monsoon season used to be an annual blessing, awaited to provide a respite from summer's scorching heat, and the promise of bountiful harvests for farmers. Now it's more of a curse, bringing with it relentless rains, floods, destruction, and death. Mother Nature is striking back, I think, after decades of Man abusing and neglecting her. And her fury cannot be restrained or contained.


My father-in-law, now a widower, is again experiencing the attendant inconveniences of a house submerged in flood. He is now temporarily displaced, staying with one of his daughters who lives nearby. The last time something like this happened was two years ago, when his wife was still alive and seemingly well. They went through the inconveniences together. I can't help but ponder on what could be going on in my father-in-law's mind, now that his wife of more than 50 years is gone, and he has to go through life's difficulties alone. My own father's situation is no different. He now has to go through life alone, without my mom's reassuring presence. These are two courageous men, able to move on despite their irreplaceable losses. I'm not certain if I'm made of the same strong material as these two. I could be. But they were soldiers of their time: My father-in-law was an officer in the Reserve, while my father was an Air Force jock. They're old school, born before the last world war; witnesses to human suffering, and the slow,, painful progression of life from the ashes. Underneath their strong, willful personalities is a rare gentleness they shower upon those whom they love. And in dealing with others they observe the tenets of fairness and unassailable integrity. They stock up on riches not of this world.


I, on the other hand, was born during a time of great optimism, strong purchasing power, and relative ease. My generation saw the rise of the service industry, essentially people doing things for other people, things too mundane or monotonous or messy. I never learned, and will never learn, to slaughter a live chicken for the dinner table, a commonplace skill of my two fathers. I am a spoiled brat compared to them.


The present-day curse of the monsoon, and life's other difficulties and uncertainties, are among the best reasons why I look forward to my "graduation," the term I use to refer to death. While most people view the subject of death as unsettling and unpleasant, and therefore a topic to be skirted in discussion, I look at it as an option to and a liberation from life's triteness. I've never entertained the thought of staying around for a very long time. There isn't sufficient happiness to go around here. Perhaps it abounds somewhere else.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

It's my mom's birthday today. She would have been 73. This is the first time she isn't around for her birthday.

More than half of my life, I've spent away from my mom. They migrated to the States when I was almost 25, a new husband and father. After that, I saw her a total of three times before she passed away last year. Time flew really fast, and took with it the moments I could have spent with my mom. I kept procrastinating, kept thinking that plentiful time to spend with her was always available for the taking. I was mistaken, of course.

A loved one's passing away opens the eyes to the importance of seemingly trifling, everyday things, like sharing meals, a good laugh, fears, tears, and most important of all, time. I still have dreams, I guess, but they're much simpler now. They're more like getting from one day to the next, happy and in one piece. None of us will be around forever, and we can take along nothing of what we have, save for love and memories. And for some, even this is not possible, like when they die surrounded by the hatred and loathing of people they have mistreated and abused; or when they pass on while afflicted with dementia.

Two months back, I sent out e-mail invites to family and selected friends about my blog post and photos related to my Mt. Pulag climb. I sent one out to Mom. I have not deleted her from my mailing list. Never. I want to keep it this way. E-mail was just about the only way we kept in touch, and deleting her name would be quite difficult. I can easily delete other people's names, but not my mom's.

If I had gotten a reply to my e-mail, then that would have been wonderful. And initially mysterious, too. To other people, it would have been frightening. But not to me. Mom was a firm believer in the supernatural, especially ghosts. I believe she held the record for having seen the ghosts of all our kin who passed on ahead of her. Each time we had kin pass away, Mom was equally worried and certain, as she was sad, that the dead kin's ghost would make a stopover at our home on its way to the eternal beyond. And indeed there were many instances of these ghostly visits, if I believed my mom's accounts. Our dead kin's ghosts said hi to her at the most inconvenient times: Like when she went to the toilet to pee in the middle of the night; or when she was on her way to the kitchen very early in the morning to make breakfast, and she thought she saw the ghost of our recently dead kin sitting on the family couch, wearing his burial clothes. Terrific. After this episode, it was Dad who cooked breakfast, and this arrangement remained in force for the rest of their life together.

I often told her not to worry about ghosts bothering her, as about real flesh and blood humans out to do others harm, like robbers and muggers. And professional politicians, and those who simply play politics. I kept telling her there were no such things as ghosts, and that when people die, their souls are not permitted to terrorize those who still survive; that a quick judgment is handed down a few hours after death, and the soul is swiftly dispatched to its eternal destination. But Mom would have none of these. She clung to her beliefs with enviable tenacity. And while she was deeply religious, she was also steeped in superstition and ritual. I think she embodied the Filipino psyche well, and it is something that I can be proud of. I think it is this mindset that endows Pinoys with their renowned resiliency. It could be one of the reasons (the other being our continuing love affair with slapstick humor) why we do not have (not yet, anyway) incidences of people going to movie houses, campuses, and workplaces, to shoot everyone on sight.

And so it was that when Mom died, I was hoping that she was right about the ghost stuff. I longed for her to pay me a visit, to say hi before she took off to her eternal beyond. I waited for anything unusual or supernatural, like the sudden waft of flowers or a candle going out, or an apparition in a darkened corner of our home, or maybe even in a dream. I waited in vain. Mom never paid me a visit. I was right about ghosts not existing. I was actually disappointed. It was one of those instances when I actually wished I was wrong. Mom probably grudgingly conceded defeat, but at the same time, was relieved and thankful that she didn't have to pay the customary ghost visits to family and kin. Mom's and Dad's families are quite big families, and it would have taken her some time to pay everyone a ghostly visit. It's different when you're on the visiting end, hey, Mom?

And then, again, if I had received a reply to my e-mail, I would have suspected, after a brief period of incredulity, that my brother, Benson, was playing a prank on me. I'm quite certain he assisted Mom with setting up an e-mail account, and if Mom didn't bother changing the original password, then Benson, one of the family's comedians (the others being Benjie and Bennett), would have found the perfect opportunity to practise his craft.

Here's a toast to you, Mom!

Found: Glimpses of Heaven

I finally climbed Mt. Pulag last May 26-27, after months of dreaming it. My resolve was made stronger when Mom passed away late last year, and after numerous personal setbacks. I'm still on my emotional rollercoaster. I've noticed that the more turbulent and despondent my life becomes, the more committed I am to doing foolhardy and risky things, testing my limits and tempting fate. Could a similar circumstance be behind those men who always crave to be on the precipice, with death just a few miscalculations away? We look at them with awe and admiration, and yet if their inspiration is no different from mine, then we should empathize with their misery. I'm entirely on my own, though, and I want neither sympathy or empathy. Whatever I do is my own decision, and whatever sad and ugly consequences I create, I must suffer alone.

*****

The trek on foot was steep and long and arduous. It gradually became apparent that I was a bit overconfident of myself. I was often running out of air. In the lowlands I'm in great shape, but high up there in the mountains, it's a different story. The option of quitting became attractive at times, like some ravishing devil offering me the pleasures of letting go. But I persevered, partly because this whole affair of a climb was a long-time dream, and partly because of encouragement from my kindred souls, for whom the climb was not just some sort of a jaunt up the mountain, but akin to a spiritual pilgrimage.

*****

We set out for the summit at about 3:30 Sunday morning. The cold was biting. In every direction one looked, it was dark, except when one gazed upward: An almost unimaginable dome of hundreds upon hundreds of stars! They didn't twinkle as much as in the lowlands, and in the crisp, pure air, they were more like blobs of light. It was the first time I had seen so many stars. Those stars alone would have been sufficient to make the climb worthwhile, but there was the summit to reach.

*****

We trekked on rocky, muddy, slippery, and bone-jarring trails. In some parts, the trails were narrow enough to make me feel like I was trying to balance myself on a wooden plank. Others were precipitous on either side, their abyss hidden by the darkness.

We walked single file, and the lights from our headlamps and flashlights reminded me of a scene from a movie about explorers in an inhospitable and forbidding alien landscape. All the while I could see the mist from my labored breathing partially obscuring the beam from my flashlight.

*****

I was fortunate enough to belong to the second group that reached the summit before the coveted sunrise. The first group broke away at a continuous, blistering pace; too much and too fast for my lungs unacclimatized to high altitudes. I wondered how they adjusted so quickly and well. Or was I experiencing the limitations of my age?

Those who left camp last, and who were likewise bogged down either by physical limitations or the challenges of the trails, or both, had to content themselves with awaiting the sunrise on the lesser peaks of Mt. Pulag. However, if not only for the certain pride you feel on reaching the summit itself, the view from the lesser peaks was of the same undiminished magnificence.

*****

When I reached the summit, I sat on wet grass and ground. That act of sitting, with its attendant heave of a sigh, was relief unlike any other, after the long, labored ascent. It didn't matter that the ground was muddy and wet, I just had to sit down.

Waiting for the sunrise was, I felt, like waiting for a miracle to happen. Some set up elaborate camera equipment. Others, like myself, had cellphone cameras and ordinary cameras. Some were standing, and others were seated. I alternated between standing up and sitting down, trying to decide which provided the better perspective. Thinking back, I realized that when one is on the summit, there was only one perspective to one of life's most spectacular views.

*****

Then the miracle slowly unfolded. First, a hint of gold on the horizon, above the rolling, puffy clouds. It gave hope. Then, slowly but surely, guided by unseen hands, the curtain of full splendor was raised. The hint of gold grew, with its long, slender arms, embracing first, nearby clouds, then on to more distant ones. It gave wonder.

The sun rose dramatically for all of us to see. It rose on its own terms, unaffected and unhurried by our excitement and impatience. Its pace was perfect. It gifted us with time to ruminate on why we so much wanted to be there. For the majority, it was only another summit to climb, another place to be. I had my own reasons. I was looking for something unidentified, without form or feature. I brought dreams with me, those still intact, and some already broken. I also brought along hope, this tenacious thing I sometimes despise, that makes me cling to dear life. I brought all these with me to the summit, for Heaven to see; perhaps to seek admonition, then mercy, then reward.

*****

The majestic sunrise was unstoppable. The golden, slender arms now turned into wide swaths of gold, and slowly crept towards us, bathing the rolling clouds, turning the grey into blue and white. The sunrise then held the summit and the surrounding peaks in its unmistakable warmth. It touched my face, momentarily looking at the dreams and hopes I brought along. It left me with inspiration. Then it went on its way to touch and hold other mountains, other souls.

Stanzas

My sister-in-law is getting married a few days from now, and my wife's cousins are preparing a video presentation to be shown during the reception. Each family is required to come up with a short video greeting for the newlyweds. I've just come back from a two-day mountain climb, and coming up with a video greeting is farthest from my mind. My battered body needs to rest. Family is family, though.

However, I've always looked at video greetings as a tired cliche, and I believe that most of them are forgotten after only a short while. Add to that is the fact that with a video greeting, it's difficult to see through a person's sincerity (or the lack of it). I prefer words. I prefer to write something for the newlyweds. I look at and treat words as remnants of a person's heart and soul. Words may lie, but to the one who is skillful in analyzing words, the lie becomes apparent and the real intent is revealed.

Obviously, for a wedding I have to write something about Love, and some of its idiosyncrasies. It's always been one of my favorite topics. Love and pain are two of my more or less constant inspirations. Could be my undoing, but what can I do? Here are the stanzas I came up with:

1

Love happens,
is unplanned.
Like the breaths I take, and,
in your absence,
my despondence.
Like my heartbeats,
their frenzy,
in your nearness.

2

Love consumes me.
Into oblivion,
I relegate the past;
Now and Possibilities
make up my dreams.

3

Love is my calling.
You are, of my passion,
the unwitting object;
you are, of my soul,
the dream.

A Trade

Rather than go to waste,
With its wretchedness waylaying,
Or fall out of grace,
With trespasses damning;
A trade will save this soul,
Will breathe new fire
To your dying embers;
I'm done early, too soon,
Perhaps,
No more island oases
In my ocean,
I keep sail under starless nights,
The sea's heaving, a dull,
Deathly monotone.
My futility is your
New lease on life,
My darkness,
Your light.
My loves can, my absence,
Survive,
Would not, your bundles of innocence;
'Tis finality, 'tis the end,
'Tis my life,
Spent.



(For my brother, Benjie.)

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.