She, the Bird

A bird was in a cage. Useless wings, it couldn’t fly.

She, the bird, was at first glad of being in the cage’s safety. No more risk of falling, of carnivores, of strong winds. Her Master would go to the cage to feed her; she didn’t have to hunt for food. Her feet gripped the stick and hopped on the stretch of it from one edge to the other. She looked down and saw how the cage’s bars prevented him from any potential fall. Vultures would fly from behind the bars. Wind would blow through the bars, but it only tottered her a little. She sang morning songs and sang sweet songs at night. She had the whole cage for dancing – little flaps, hops, and twists. Every morning, she would rejoice at the sight of her Master’s long fingers that dropped those yummy seeds.

The days passed and she found herself enjoying the cage less and less. Her wings were turning weak and stiff. She flapped one, two, three, and found herself tired. She started singing badly. Soon enough, she found herself looking at the wide sky over her and that vast space much bigger than the cage. The cage wasn’t comfortable anymore, and the bars began to stifle her.

One day, she awoke and felt no better than yesterday. She didn’t feel that her purpose was solely singing songs to a master. She was starting to get mad at her Master. That morning, the Master slipped his long fingers in the cage as usual and dropped the seeds. She saw the flesh the fingers were clad in and ripped it. The Master briskly removed his fingers along with a groan of pain. Eyes looked at her in shock, fingers holding a bleeding finger.

The next morning, a different finger – thin and wrinkly – entered her cage and dropped the seeds. Her bite produced a high-pitched shriek.

The following morning, big and fat fingers placed the seeds. With a swift glide, she bit the skin. Mad scream. Next thing she knew, the cage was shaking. From then on, she was sure that peace would never come back to that cage again. It was no longer safe.

Finally, the morning came when familiar fingers held the cage’s door again. The long fingers threw the door open. No seeds. The fingers didn’t come in. Silence. She found the silence curious, and carefully hopped towards the open door. She stuck her head out and looked from left to right. The place was all empty.

Her eyes caught sight the bare sky before her, no more bars blocking the entire sight. She closed her eyes and inspired the air. A breeze, however, suddenly blew and shook the cage; she flew back into the cage in fright. She calmed herself down and faced the open door again. The sky was calling her. She flapped her wings once, twice, thrice. Forward. Four. Forward. Five, six. Can she do it?

She remembered how she’d done flying before. A long time ago. She recalled how it felt to spread her wings, to fly with clouds, to glide across and over roofs…to be free. At last, she flapped her wings more than three, more than four, more than five and six. She flapped it countlessly. Faster. Faster. She flapped it so fast with a force that could defy gravity. She knew she could trust her wings now. Her mind grew more and more ecstatic as her feet lifted from the ground. More than anything, she wanted to overcome risks, escape the attacks of carnivores, and fight against the strongest wind. Flap, flap, flap.

At last, she flew off the cage, towards the sky and away from the bars she once knew as home. Boy, she was free. The wind danced with her, the sun greeted her. She was, above all else, the bird that she should be.

Keep On Calling

I've begun a morning routine with a special friend.

What we do is have our Verse of the Day - which I pick from my bottle called "Vital Life" - and we reflect on it. Anyone who fails to send a reflection gets a fine of P100. We assigned no particular time; we're OK as long as it is in the morning.

Today, this is what I got from the bottle: "You are forgiving and good, O Lord, abounding in love to all who call to you." - Psalm 86:5. As practiced, I took a photo of it and sent it to him.

"It's about God's mercy and love," he messaged. He always goes first. "I was told that the unforgivable sin is not believing in God's forgiveness. My priest said that God loves us even if we are a bit of a joke."

I sent him a big thumbs up, and typed. "Yes. Hahaha." I was thinking, OK. Thanks for that, Lord, because You know, I am actually a big joke.

I was holding Fr. Thomas Green's Darkness in the Marketplace that time, planning to read it. After long days of spiritual dryness, I felt a yearning. A different kind of yearning. For God. And I had to do something about it.

I set the book aside. Now, it was my turn.

"As for me..." I was typing, "I feel spiritually dry most days. I guess it's because I feel sinful. I feel like I do things which I know God won't like." I sent.

Lately, I've been adjusting to heaps of things - family, career, future plans, relationships. I felt like I was not doing most things right. A lot has changed, and I found myself rarely in best disposition.

"But this morning feels different..." I added.

"How so?" he asked.

"'...abounding in love to all who call to you,'" I quoted then, "You know, I pray to God even when I do not feel Him. I know the problem is with me. But this morning, I realized that God's approach to me now is quiet intimacy."

Somehow, I felt that the dryness made my intimacy with Him painful yet more precious to me than before - so precious that I wanted to keep it unsaid, unknown by most people. As much as possible, I just wanted it to be shown in the way I walk, talk, or just be, lest I felt like I would be ruining its true essence.

"I realized that my spirituality does not actually stop from getting deeper, maybe?" I continued, "That there is progress when you keep on praying even when you don't feel Him because somehow, it's like you saying and proving that God is real. That His existence is not based on feelings. He exists even when I do not feel Him." I was internalizing it more as I wrote it.

"It's true," I concluded, "that God's love is abounding to all who call to Him. No matter how sinful you feel you are...just keep on calling, keep on calling, keep on calling. And He'll come to You with outstretched hands."

I guess God likes this morning routine, too.

When It Paints Sense

Most days, we do not understand. The rest of the days, we try to make sense of the little we can understand.

This is one of the rest of the days.

I remember the afternoon I painted vines in my room's walls. The green swirled in every direction, playful yet gentle. Dots of red made roses. I nursed a haven in my mind, and all I wanted then was to make it alive. So I transformed my room into a work of art.

Each day, I would hold a paintbrush or a pen. Classic music played on my laptop whilst I stormed the white sheet with colors or different shades of black. I would tape my best pieces to the wall. It embellished my walls until it turned into a sort of gallery.

It was beautiful.

I was ecstatic, drowning in the abstract. I resigned from my full-time job then, and I was satisfied with the little I was earning with my part-time job and writing gigs. I held my time in my hands. I had enough money for myself. Just for myself.

Until I was told that I was drowning myself in the abstract, probably, to weasel out life.
That hurt. A lot. Suddenly, my awe melted and all I wanted then was to lay my hands on each of the paintings. Destroy them, perhaps. Career-wise, I was fumbling in the dark. Quarter life crisis, as they described it. I was lost. I wasn't happy.

Today is very different.

Life's no longer vines and roses. Now, I live not in a world I painted, but in a painted world. I am drowned in the concrete - in the real, in the truth, in both sheer ugly and beauty. I stand here, alone with my eyes and hands. Alone with God, the Great Painter.

God tells me that I should grow up, and leave the worlds I invented. God tells me to live and turn the abstract to concrete, the mind to hands, the ideas to things. God tells me that I may be what I behold...but I am, too, what I hold.

Most days, I do not understand.

But thank God, this is one of the rest of the days.

Scribblory

Let me capture moments that vanish quickly, too fast for our memory to catch.

You see, you got to grab hold of them in their presence, for catching them by tail leaves you solely of their crumbs - their precious, tiny, tiny bits.

I point you to my website - Scribblory - Scribbling from Memory. If the word isn't familiar to you, it's because I invented it.

Scribblory.

I write to remember.

The Swan

You are the swan that dances on my surface.

You make ripples on me with your feet, flapping gracefully.

You glide, you dive, and you swim.

You rest on me comfortably.

You move me, and I let you sway.

Oh I let you sway, sway, sway.

And I have no more stillness.

I Missed You

I removed my shoes, placed them on the rack.

I stirred the curtain and stepped in.

I felt it, Your majesty filled the place.

And it all seemed familiar.

I moved towards the center, and knelt with both knees like I used to.

I sat upon my legs, then bent low enough to kiss the green carpet.

I am here, Lord.

When I lifted my head and looked at You, my heart almost burst.

You and me.

Me and You.

Somehow, I just knew.

You brought me here.

You have longed to spend time with me.

Alone with me.

You missed me.

How to Own a Space

I was given a room, an old one.

It was pretty furnished - a bed, a fan, a small closet,

Oh! And a nicely-varnished bookshelf.

Then there were...

few little things the former dwellers used.

I looked around and saw the walls peeling, 

discolored from past rains coming in. 

A cracked glass window let in dusty air.

Corners were covered with nets to keep off insects.

It was now my room, such an old one.

So I grabbed a broom, a mop, a trash bag,

then prepared a rag and a basin of water.

I scrubbed the floor, surfaces, edges,

and wiped things off to my satisfaction.

I pulled in my piano and set a chair,

and pushed in my study desk.

Then I hanged my clothes in the closet,

and placed my shoes and boots on the rack.

I then brought out bottles of paint and brushes,

and dabbed colors on walls and windows.

I formed lines, vines, and roses

then plastered sheets of paintings and sketched faces.

I turned around, looking at all that I made.

I adored the change, oh I loved the remake!

The room, sure was an old one,

But it was now a different space.

This room is now my place.