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.

Where Words Are

Have you ever had this kind of day when you just have nothing to say?

People call you writer, and today, you don't know how.

You're staring at a blank sheet, the cursor blinking.

Words are lost.

None is coming out.

None.

So you put everything down, and set out to look for words.

You ask your father, pet your dog, and hug your sweetheart.

You take a bath, listen to music, and go for a long walk.

Words in the sky.

Words in the air.

Words in bells ringing.

There are words in Chai tea and Panini.

Of course, there are tons of words in a bookstore.

But nothing seems enough.

You step in the chapel, your shoes tapping.

You walk, listening to dull echoing.

Closer and closer, you come before Him.

Your eyes upon Him, the Source of all words.

You take a bow, your knee touches the ground.

You lift your head unto Him then sit down.

You see how Jesus is bare, wide open.

His arms outstretched, his body bleeding.

But He is there, dying in glory.

He gazes dearly, adoringly.

Oh, He is filled with love, honesty, majesty!

And in its depth, there are words brimming.

Brimming.

Wisdom Without Words

I notice that wisdom 

does not only take the form of words.

It can also be in silence

and in composure.

It can be in choosing this

and not choosing that.

Or in doing this

and not doing that.

Wisdom is in maintaining joy

even when there's no reason to.

Or in sustaining peace when things 

shake you, push you or disturb you.

Wisdom is hoping for the good

and letting the bad ones pass.

It is throwing what isn't good for your soul 

and keeping what nourishes.

Wisdom is in kindness when you're hated

and in giving when you're deprived.

It doesn't make friends for the sake of business 

or fame or other selfish intentions.

It keeps friends to turn them into family

and family to turn them into loved ones.

Wisdom is in being here and now,

and in becoming better the next morning.

Wisdom is living with feet on ground's dust and ashes,

yet with eyes toward the splendor of heaven.

Still You

There is...
a sense of security when I come to You, Lord.

I know that Presence - that caring, accepting, and peaceful Presence I drenched myself in when I felt alone in the convent. I would look at You, and You would look at me as if I'm the only person in the universe.

You created everything, but You looked at me as if I was much more loved. Much more beautiful.

I came to You in my dirtiest clothes, and you welcomed me.

I did come to You in my I-haven't-taken-a-bath-yet state, and you welcomed me.

I approached You without make-up nor with the hair of my legs shaved, and you welcomed me.

I ran to You in my worst - dry, angry, depressed - and you welcomed me.

I've already stepped out of the nunnery.
And still here You are, alive with that Presence.

Everything has changed. Everyone did.
But You, Lord, have not.

You are still who You are.

And You still love me.

Reaching Infinity

Here in the car, I look at the clouds.
And think of You.

I can't remember the last time I felt near You like I used to.
By that, I mean, me being so-much drawn to You.
I can't remember.

I shut myself in a cave for reasons I have not spelled out yet. And somehow, I felt like my awe in You has been translated into the colors I poured into papers, sheets of sketched faces, and paintings on my room's walls.

They say it is a form of idealism, of me trying to make alive a world I created in my head.
Or maybe it's me trying to reach infinity, trying to reach You.

You and me.
Me and You.

Because we is really the only world I know,
the only space I would willingly fall into.

Here in the car, I look at the clouds.
And I feel like I am back to we,
that I never really got that far from You...
because You were never far from me.

I think of You, and feel that it's not so bad to create chimerical worlds,
but it is time to give them breath.

It is time to live, not merely dipping myself in colors and ink.
But to live, truly reaching for You.
Always reaching for Infinity.

Somewhere Not Here

This morning, I sat on the chair by my desk to meditate.

But before I closed my eyes, I let the picture of the shore get into me, and inadvertently brought it with me in the darkness.

And it painted the darkness.

I want to go somewhere where nature is, some place where I could sit before the ocean and stare at the horizon. Or perhaps, somewhere with cool breeze and mountains reaching the velvety sky. 

Somewhere, somewhere away from this city.

There, I would sit by the shore and inhale the morning air. Then I would meditate and safely fall into nothingness.

There, I would find words, string them together, and write them.

There, I would be free. And be myself. Just myself. See who I am, see what I want, see my potential. There, I would see me in my raw form.

I do not know why I cannot get enough of silence when I have a room at home where I could be alone and quiet. But maybe I need a new environment, some new place, some fresh space.

I have to be somewhere I could think more then come out new, at peace, and strong.

Or just some place.

Some space where I could be in utter Vastness.

And find direction.

Transience

When you know that things go in and out of existence,

That time passes

And the sun sleeps

The mood hides

Clouds dissipate

Flowers decay

The ice melts

And the breath of life evaporates

What do you do?

How do you capture

A brief moment's beauty

That once fades

Will never be seen again?

Drawn to Freedom

I cup my hands over you, 

O floating light,

And keep you safe,

keep you in my heart.

I wish to have a whit, a speck,

A touch of your sliver,

Bury me in your dust 

Until I own it,

Yes, own it forever!

O freedom,

I like your pleasant face.

I envy your mirth,

How you're loafing, 

Smiling at the sun

And let your dress flutter 

When you run.

O freedom,

How you spread your arms before the sky!

You walk this earth barefooted,

And in the grass, you lie

Embracing and soaking,

Soaking in its sweet scent.

Freedom,

I like your verity,

You strip off clothes of hypocrisy.

You face the world unmasked,

Trudging hills and bushes,

Scathed by torns and branches.

You are brave, very brave.

Freedom,

In the night, your mind wanders,

Dabbing, staining papers with paint

And then threading words,

Creating worlds that don't exist

Yet live through pens and paintbrushes.

Three Things Women Don't Want to Forget

You, woman, remember.

Three things.

One, you are beautiful.

You might see flaws in the mirror,

but none of those define your beauty.

What matters isn't those that fade and change.

It's about who you are and what you make people feel.

Two, you are worthy.

Your worth is more than glinting diamonds and bars of gold.

You are far more than any material thing in the world,

for your heart is capable of loving deeply

and your mind runs beyond the longest mile.

Three, you deserve a great man.

You're for a man who will love you everyday,

and adore your strengths and weaknesses combined,

and respect you from head to toe.

You might be wrong in other things,

but it doesn't mean you're for a wrong man.

You, woman, remember.

Cherish yourself.

When God Stares

I lay awake in bed with You in my head.

It was a fine morning. 

The sun was gently shining, 

the temperature cool.

And I felt like You were staring at me,

staring with soft eyes.

Lovingly.

Adoringly.

Unflinching.

I felt like You were telling me 

that You were with me.

That I was never alone.

That I was protected, guided and cared for.

That I was loved.

I lingered on Your stare,

basked in it.

Minutes passed.

A few more minutes.

I felt Your presence soaking my skin,

then my muscles 

then my bones.

You are with me, Lord.

Then I sat,

and then stood.

And I lived the day.

Joyful Blur

Sometimes, life doesn't make sense.

All you know is everything's bright, warm, and beautiful.

Things amble in front of you, and you just let things.

You float along the water's ripples, and you trust the water.

Life is good.

Nothing is sure, save that the time is right.

You feel Jesus's hand gripping yours,

and when you look back, you see clear traces of your footsteps.

Sometimes, life doesn't make sense.

All you remember is that one day, you gave up trying to control things.

And now, when you walk, 

you walk with Him.

God's Surprises

One day you wake up and your arid days are over. 

You smile at the sun, you eat well, and you bounce when you walk.

You're all too happy that you can't find words for it or for anything.

It feels like life's wheel just turned, and you're on top.

And there, in that transition, you realize what can really make you happy.

You get to know that you're not the type who gets ecstatic with promotion or any career success,

that you're not proud of being known by quite a multitude of people,

that compliments no longer get into your head.

There, you get to see what's empty and what's not.

You define what it really means to be on top.

You rename dreams, find new goals, and envision a new life.

Things suddenly become surprising as if spotting a huge shell on the shore,

or suddenly feeling cool with the May air,

or taking hold of a book you thought you wouldn't find in the Philippines' bookstore.

And what's more surprising is, whatever made that has always been within your grasp.

Relationships.

Love.

Homeless

I don't know if you're fond of dogs. 

I am.

I pray for every street dog I see, especially when it's crossing the street.
"Lord, take care of that dog. Oh please, protect it from getting hit by a vehicle."
My eyes then follow the dog until it safely gets on to the other side of the road. I do that, as if staring helps.

My heart breaks for them, you see. I believe that dogs are good by nature. It's how they are created - loyal, loving and even sweet, sometimes. And I think they are adorable no matter how messy they look. They do not deserve the dirt and cruelty of the street.

But they're homeless.

And I hate that somebody deprived them of the warmth of home, of a family. 

One midday, I was looking out from the jeepney I was riding. I saw a street dog, and said a prayer for it like I always did. The jeep continued to run as it should, but as it did, I saw a street child. My eyes fell on the muck in his cheek, the tattered clothes, bare legs and tanned, dirty skin. I reckoned, he was about three or four years old.

I don't know if you're fond of children.

I am.

But I don't always pray for every street child I see in the street.

You see, I am a preschool teacher. I teach kids how to read and write. I love it when we fall during ring-around-the-rosie. I greet them with a hug, assist them when they change clothes after gym, and fix the girls' hair when tousled. Children are pure, good and happy by nature.

I don't know why it's always blame that comes to my mind first.
"This happened to him because his parents are lazy and indifferent!"
But I realized, it doesn't change the fact that this street child is not one of the kids I teach in school, that he's not learning how to read and write, and that he doesn't play ring-around-the-rosie safely. 

I don't know how many hugs he receives each day, or if somebody assists him nicely when changing clothes, or when somebody even bothers to comb his hair.

I thought, this street child does not deserve the dank, angry road.

But look.

He's homeless.

Forgotten Present

I am sorry, Present.

You're a gift I've been taking for granted.

I keep thinking about Past and Future,

When all I ever have for sure...is you.

So at this moment, allow me to remember

Who you are.

You are sacred

For you are the space in time where God and I meet,

Where God's words are spoken the loudest,

Where His presence is the warmest,

And where God is just being Himself.

You are the reality

For you're the world where there is real breeze,

Real heat and real coldness,

Real sunrise and real sunset,

Real skin and real breath.

You are beautiful.

You are the detail I always miss,

The splendor of heaven 

Revealed in tiny things.

You are both God and man's triumph.

You are mine.

Past has already died.

Future has never been born.

But you, Present,

You live.