happy birthday, pa!

Travelled back home in Bohol to celebrate a trio of birthday celebrants today, February 15—our dear father and my two pamangkins, Kylie and Hansoy. The kids aren’t home with us this time, but they’re very much present in spirit. 

My wish remains the same, that we stay healthy, inside and out, and that we hold on to the truth that peace of mind is worth far more than all the world’s riches combined. I truly believe in that.

[ more photos here ]

happy valentine's!

The ladies of the house, getting their flowers. Happy Valentine’s Day to the women who hold our homes—and practically our lives—together. Thanks to the pamangkins for the beautiful gift.

[ more photos here ]

family time

The tapok-tapoks have begun. Birthday plus holiday plus welcome back gathering with the family and cousins. Savoring the moment. 🌟

[ more photos here ]

To Tging, our littlest eldest sister with the biggest heart—happiest of birthdays! I wish more people were as strong and compassionate as you. Thank you for taking care of our home’s fur babies. You deserve everything beautiful in this world. I couldn’t come home to Bohol today, but see you soonest!

we will remember

Like many kalag-kalag seasons, we did things a bit early to avoid the huge crowd of cemetery-goers on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days. On October 30, we visited the graves of family members and loved ones in Dampas, Loon, Maribojoc, and Dauis. It was a long day of traveling back and forth, and we weren’t able to make it to Serenity Park before it closed at 6PM.

I’ve always had an affinity for trips like this, especially with my mother who is a storyteller. She recalls stories with remarkable detail, particularly those from the Flores Valles and Torralba sides of the family.

One of her accounts is about a parish priest, apparently the great-grandfather of my grandmother, Mama Pila. Sometime in the early 1820s, Mount Hibok-Hibok (then called Catarman Volcano) in Camiguin erupted so massively that residents were forced to flee. Some Mambajao locals resettled in Bohol, including my soon-to-be ancestor, a woman with the family name Roldan. She settled in Dauis, where she became a cantora, or church singer. Like in many unfortunate tales, she was impregnated by a Spanish kura paroko or parish priest and bore an illegitimate son named Jose “Eping” Flores.

The priest was later reassigned to Maribojoc, bringing with him Jose, now grown up. Jose eventually became mayor of the town and was fondly known as Kapitan Eping. Their ancestral house once stood behind the Maribojoc Church, built on what was originally a small islet separated from the mainland by a narrow river flowing toward the Cebu Strait. When the priest became the town’s parish priest, locals—especially churchgoers—were tasked to haul kuta or coral stones to fill the gap, gradually linking the islet to the main coastline. My mother recalls visiting that house during town fiestas and Holy Week as a child, its cavernous living room floored with wide wooden planks and filled with religious relics.

Another story my mother told me was about a war veteran in the family, Panfilo Torralba, the youngest among my grandfather Papa Iyan’s siblings. He enlisted during World War II and, like so many others, never made it home. He died young, one of the countless Filipinos who perished during the Japanese invasion in Luzon in 1942.

His remains contained in a casket were sent back to Bohol in a separate stately aluminum box, which was kept in my grandfather Papa Iyan’s silong, the open space beneath the floor of their house in Tamblot. The box was kept for several more years in that silong even after the casket was buried. When my mother was a child, she would often see that box while playing in the area. One day, out of curiosity, she and her playmates pried it open, only to find a serpent coiled inside. That sight alone was enough to keep them away from the silong for good.

There were so many tales and fragments to take in. Some haunting, some simply human. Like many family stories, ours seems to begin with something that lingers between memory and myth. My mother said my uncles have written records and more to tell. Maybe it’s time to look into them. 

[ More photos here ]

dear ma

Just a few words: Christmas Day is always exceptional because of you, and what I want for Christmas is to have more Christmas Days with you—stronger, healthier, happier—so we could travel together more to places you have not traveled to in your prime.

Happy birthday, Ma, and I love you.

merry christmas!

May your Christmas Day bloom with so much joy and blessings, and your loved ones blossom into more beautiful, compassionate souls. That’s my yuletide wish for you.

31

My heartfelt gratitude goes to everyone who remembered and greeted me on my birthday yesterday.

People say you become wiser with age. Although wishful thinking dictates it has a smidgen of truth, I just think you become equal parts jaded, dumbfounded, and generally exhausted, especially with all the happenings in this world.

But the fortunate thing here is that (if you are fortunate enough) you find people around you who are as jaded, dumbfounded, and exhausted as you are. Kidding aside, what I want to say is that you have to have a support system, and I am thankful I have my family with me and very few friends who I can genuinely call friends throughout these years. And pinpointing them out is hard, TBH.

Many fear the coming of 31, that it’s like jumping over a cliff with unknown heights, or finally crossing the three decades prior with inadequate life skills and experiences to prepare you for the next decades or so. I guess some of these are true, some not. There will always be questions that will continue to nag you. Have you done enough?

Have you corrected and made peace with the errors you’ve made in life? Are the choices you make benefit you and you alone? And after everything you have achieved, are you truly happy?

These are valid questions, concerns. Ultimately, to me, what matters is that you know deep within your compass that you know where you are supposed to be, what you are supposed to do, whatever your age is. To hell with where the rest are going and are doing.

To borrow and paraphrase a few words from our queen mother RuPaul, shantay wherever you want to sashay.

happy birthday, mother dear

Yesterday, December 25, may just be another day to be merry with complete abandon for some, but in this household the 25th of the 12th month of the year means something more. Probably even more than any other celebrations out there.

Because December 25 is also the birthday of my mother, the person who I always wish to become but staggeringly fail. But despite these drawbacks, both big and small, she accepts them, rises above them with grace and generosity. That is why it is easy never not to love her.

Happy birthday, Ma! And Merry Christmas!

happy holidays!

It is now the eve of a day when many people find joy and conjure the most simple of reasons to celebrate the smallest of things—life and warmth, food and shelter, luck and laughter, good decisions, company of friends and family.

So for this particular Christmas, I will make it simple as well: I wish we can have it all throughout the year and in the next, and I wish we will experience these with people who love us, respect us, and who truly matter to us.

From our family to yours, happy holidays!

happy ma's day

I grew up knowing a mother can do everything, anything. And up to this day, that thought never changes. At least when it comes to you, Ma. You are prone to tears with the teleseryes you follow, you can be hurt with the words, you are very human. But you are also that someone who’s closest to the manifestation of a miracle—how you can be strong when everything around you seems to crumble, how you can be kind in the face of cruelty and confusion, how you can whip up something out of nothing.

Sometimes, in the most difficult of times, I’d think I do not deserve such grace, but in every moment of each day with you, you always make me feel otherwise. So thank you, thank you, thank you… There is not enough “thank you’s” or “I love you’s” to wrap in one embrace all of the effort and sacrifices you’ve made for me and this family, but I will try. That is a promise. Happy Mother’s Day, Ma. I love you, always, clear as sunlight.

trenta

Yup, the idea of a Dirty 30 celebration is tempting. You can’t be forever 30, right? You should meet the unknown with wild abandon as you leave behind the last vestige of your youth. But keeping it Lowkey@30 with the family will do. (It still rhymes!) I prefer it that way, too. Just chill, just closer to those who really matter to you. There’s a lot to say, but I will save all of it for some other time. The bottomline is this: If there is one wish I’d make on this day that’s not only for me, it is that we could all liberate ourselves soon from what perpetually pains us. Really soon. Cheers, friends and loved ones! Thanks to those who remembered, to those who made this day special.

happy international women's day!

Happy International Women's Day to my lady friends, relatives, and especially to my mother and sisters (even if we are supposed to celebrate womanhood all throughout the year, on equal measure with the opposite sex, of course)! Last night, just before this day of commemoration, a thought struck me: I can finally confirm that men—no matter how macho and dignified they would like to be in front of a crowd—are almost always afraid of confident, strong, and intelligent women. Especially those who carry them with grace and decency. Keep it up, girls. You are beyond inspiration, and you never fail to amaze me. We need more of you in this time of hyper-toxic masculinity. Love lots.

season's greetings!

The most common consensus as everyone inches closer to January 1 is that each year is just a series of extreme ups and downs, and that we will eventually feel better as we hurdle onto another year. Or so we thought. Nothing has prepared anyone for the avalanche that is 2017.

2017 is a year that could easily be summed up as difficult. From wrath of nature and its consequences, local and world leaders who make highly questionable and sometimes laughable decisions to unending wars, existential traumas, and personal tragedies, this has been a year that challenges us the more we try to get away from its clutches.

Although no amount of celebration could remedy the devastation in all its hideous forms that many have endured, I guess we are all lucky enough that we manage (and perhaps conditioned) to insert a cheerful vibe every December. Being joyous on the twelfth month is not for everyone, but for those who do, cheers mate!

Let’s take for example Christmas Day on December 25. As we know, it is not only a chance to open gifts and swap stories with family and friends. And for us, this always rings a notch truer than ever, in each year, because the month of December alone ushers us to the birthday of our mother—the rarest living Wonder Woman I personally know.

That is why moments or instances such as this allow us a momentary respite, a reason to celebrate. Yes, it may not be easy these days to insist that we “cheer up”, but at least we could try. We always try. So from my family to yours, Happy Christmas and have a delightful and prosperous New Year!

And remember, before we turn to another page in our lives, give thanks to those that make you matter, make your days a little bit lighter, a little more colorful. Do not fail them. That is why I am sending out my gratitude to those who keep up with my countless attempts at trying. Sometimes, the finer things in life do not require money. In these distracting times, what we might really need, more than ever, is appreciation.

on mother's day

In times like this, when the seas are rough and the waves keep rocking your boat, you need to keep calm and trust on your anchor. And for several years, this woman remains to be my reliable anchor. Happy Mother's Day, Ma! No words can define my love for you, not just on this day but always. All the time.

*

Today is Mother's Day. I know, it is another capitalist concept embraced by many. But it is good to remind ourselves that we celebrate the strength, love, and wisdom shared to us by our mothers. Outside our homes, the closest we could get to another mother is our teachers, from pre-school to tertiary education. I am lucky enough that I have a mother who is also a public high school teacher. Whether these teachers are men or women, they are still our mothers in the sense that they nurture us with the knowledge we need to face the realities of the world. But as I face the strange reality of this country today, some questions come into mind: How much knowledge and wisdom did our teacher-mothers actually instill in their children today and in the past? Have they taught these children the history that shapes the present? Have they taught these children to be critical and not be swayed by lies and fabricated stories? Have they shared the reality as it is? For all the teachers in this lifetime who have prepared me to this day, especially on this day before the elections, I am so much thankful. Your guidance, truthfulness, and courage to teach the truth and reality are an inspiration. To the rest of the teachers out there, persist, be honest, and teach well. Don't fail the future generation. It is the bravest job in the world.

family comes first

Joy and not duty. Contentment and not perfection. I believe these are the few core ideals that constitute the many variations of love, especially when it comes to family. That is why on pre-Valentines night, I met my mother, some of my siblings, and pamangkins. We spend each other’s company over good food and funny stories. Finding love this February is as simple as going back to your roots. There’s no hurting this time.

hello there, 2016

happy christmas, folks!

#bravebohol

On this day a year has already passed since the 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck our beautiful province of Bohol. It changed everything. Too much has been said about getting up after the fall, “bangon,” and this wanton righteousness to connect everything to resilience. But resilience is not enough. Resilience ignores the fact that humans are in nature capable of getting hurt, being miserable, and at a loss for words. Even up to this very moment. This must be the reason why many do not understand what we are commemorating for today: “Happy anniversary para sa earthquake?” or “Plenty have died, why celebrate?” I get it. There is always the weight of enigma that follows an immense, random tragedy. That is why resilience must be taken in a different context, if not taken out of the picture, since it pays no respect to the process of healing, the pains of progress and normalcy. Rather, it is the collective bravery of Bol-anons that we must remember and be grateful for. Being brave is to acknowledge fear and vulnerability, to confront and conquer them. Resilience does not entirely capture that essence. A year has passed, and I can now truly, thankfully say, “Yes, these Boholanos are brave.”

bad luck

2013, I think, would go down in history as my worst, bar none. The first half of it has been awfully terrible: the inevitable departure of the geographical kind, the second severe ankle sprain in less than four months, the persistent thievery at my home province’s house, the news of mild scoliosis, the same old issues that run in the blood.

The second half opened to something much worse: the constant unreciprocated feelings, the lost iPhone 5 that was only five months old, the car accident that left my father with a map of bruises on his body and a fractured rib, the sty that didn’t go away and would now require an eye operation soon, the doubts that proved to be true in the end, and finally, another departure, but only this time, it was of the emotional kind.

I greeted July not with shining optimism but with a dread that would shame even the most ominous of feelings. Up to this very day, I’ve been wondering, why? Why now? Why me? Could it be a conspiracy of everyone I’ve made ill in the past? Could it be the number 13 that, like a clingy girlfriend, latches on the 20 to make the ultimate year of bad lucks? Could it simply be not my year?

More questions, less answers. One may never even know why, and that’s what hurts the most. The obscurity of reason or the absence of it is just as intense and piercing as the bliss of discovery. All this is fairly personal. Some brought by acts of the divine and brought by my own doing, therefore the art of blaming this on that can easily be regarded as null and void. No one’s to blame but me. The stubborn, illogical, “emo” me.

There was, of course, the tailspin of emotions. It happened, and the descent was rapid and violent and even close to hitting rock bottom if not for the distraction of my family and friends’ familiar noise, the insight of newfound acquaintances, the numbing drudgery of the everyday, and even alcohol. Red Horse, Tanduay Rhum, and Emperador Light were my closest of friends. I remain thankful to them for pulling me out of that dark, dark place instead of plunging further down.

And now it is the first day of August, the second month of the second half of the year. It could have also been the anniversary of a word that had brought so much joy, so much promise when it was flung at me out of the blue before:

hey

Who would’ve known such simple utterance would create a ripple in my life. Like a pebble dropped on still pond, something was stirred, something was changed. I believed it was the start of something handsome and lasting, but now, in retrospect, I think it could have also been a disturbance, just a blip in my fight for sanity.

Many have said do not dwell on the past. But it is hard not to. At the moment, the past is just too close to the present. Bad luck’s still throbbing in the air. But there’s a silver lining: the stone may have been dropped, disturbing the calm, the ripple extending and reaching far, but I know the water will soon become still, the undulations edging away. Things will be at peace again.

I wait for the ripples to go.