Bukidnon

where the air is clean and captivating,
where you feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet;
where the birds awaken your senses at sunrise,
where the trees' roots play with boulders and pebbles alike,
and where the same trees' topmost branches reach skyward to tell the Heavens of your dreams;

where the roads go up and down and up again,
curving toward the hidden inevitability, another magnificent unknown;
where restless souls are given time to think, to breath,
where castaways are welcomed and given space to heal;
where escapists are provided caves to hide their fears and their tales,
and where all abandon and adventure gallop along with the roan horses - unbridled, untamed;

where smiles are free and laughter comes much easily;
where the clouds meet the pale blue mountains in a quiet coexistence,
where the moon and stars shine brightly against the night sky;
where the end starts just like every song's beginning,
and where tomorrow feels like countless of good, harmonious days;

where comfort lies, snugly with a cup of freshly brewed coffee,
where the children play like how our children are supposed to play;
where we sleep, soundly - even dreamlessly,
where the colors are bright and soothingly familiar:
where our true home lies. and waits to warm our tired spirits once more.

Mountain song

I found a Land in the mountains and beyond
where you cross a river twice,
where blades of grass cut you until you repent.

Up and down I went with a young troop of five
and a wise man who told us stories
of the sky and of the plains.

The wise man taught us a song about journeying
to a bountiful land where welcome would be warm
to a good lady with my own name.

The men joined along but I could not -
not because of shame nor pride but because
I knew the girl was not good, though she tries to be.

On we went, through the raging river, past many questions
until the path ended at a cliff:
across the river stood the sacred Land, the people's Land.

I crossed the river with only the wise man,
his son, and the son's friend. I knew the trip,
like so many others I've had, would change me yet again.

We pitched our tents and swam like kids on summer break
and communed with the natives like it was
our second home. Yes, the Land, like my second home.

The mountains have always brought verve into my life,
a sense of freedom and danger that
no other form of nature could ever give.

Passion. It has always brought me passion.
And in the late hours, I listened to the wise man's tales
of love and dreams. I listened to the cold mountain breeze.

To the constant pattering of the rain.
I listened.
And I listened to Him.


The story ends there, where heaven and hell meet:

across the broad sky, across the mountain ranges
I had come to understand Time and Nature's humor.

The mountains brought me life.
Energy without the usual concomitant weariness.
Questions without the need to find answers.

I found a place I've never gone before
but in hindsight, I realize I'd been mistaken:
I didn't find the Land that I speak of --
the Land found me. And it had the last Laugh.

For Georgia (A Repost)

This is my ode to Bukidnon. Somehow I feel comforted reading the lines again.

It’s a toss between Savannah and Manhattan. Who’d ever want to leave Savannah, with its plantations and idyllic country life? You wake up to the sound of the birds chirping at your window and to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The sun’s already up high at 7am. The cook’s knocking softly on your door and you know breakfast of eggs, toast, and hot chocolate is waiting. The cold water you used to despise when you were still little Michael Darling who had to be carted off to the tub by dear Nana becomes a favorite playmate to fend off the summer heat.

Never mind that the town is a bit farther than it once was – you don’t mind hitching for a ride nor do you mind getting behind the steering wheel this time. You’re all grown-up and you have your license to prove it. Never mind that life is slow-paced and people would raise their eyebrows if you step inside the bowling alley and gasp if you ordered a light beer at any of the grills. You know you have to live with their stares. Your girls will have to, themselves, when the time comes. Having your last name as it is denotes pros and cons, and it’s either you conform to the structure of your family’s history or dye your hair red and cackle with glee while playing pool. Oh your dad will curse you if you ever choose the latter – but you won’t, of course. You’re too boring. You suit your Savannah.

That’s why you love it so. The lake is minutes away from your country house. You like it there – the sun’s reflection on Nazuli’s face, the peaceful rippling of the water, the leaves floating along the edges, the rocky bottom, the trees that surround your secret place, the kids and the teenagers with gold hair and bright blue eyes who swim like merpeople. They’re so different from you and yet you both love the icy water splashing against your faces. You don’t know how to swim but that’s the last thing on your mind. Who cares if you dive in and never live to see the surface again? At least you’re within the tranquil fort you dream of owning someday.

Though your Savannah sun gives you practical leeway to get out and smile, it also turns against you at times, scorching your hair and drying out all your enthusiasm. Close proximity to Heaven does that to you. And just as the sun can harshly lap at your face and never tire from doing so for hours, the rain can also be unforgiving. You remember having been stuck at the state college one bleak summer afternoon. The rain had come pelting with such intensity that you feared the roof of the buildings would give in to the tremendous harassment. You know that there are times when the rain would break and hit the rocks and the roofs. Hale. Your neighbors tell you to be thankful for not having experienced being hit with icy drizzles on the head. They sting. You had thought they would, naturally, but being the curious, crazy kid your father always complains about, you always go outside and smile up at the clouds, hoping with all your might that Heaven would throw you even a tiny icy dot. It never did; you liked getting drenched in the rain, though.

You have so many fond memories of rain here. It had brought first love to you. It was a surreal day when you and your friend’s older brother found yourselves under the same umbrella. You had been 13 and he, 18. he had thought you were at least 17 and had been enraged when he found out you were practically a baby. It hadn't been easy detaching yourself from that chapter of your life. You felt the pain of the distance and the sheer difficulty of making hopes meet. You had to go away. Age had become just a trifle thing. Status had taken its place. Maybe, you think to yourself, things would work out someday. And maybe you, yourself, would make things work someday.

Rain also gave you and your cousins a moment of bonding and adventure. (Actually, it had been you, your two nieces, and the first cousin of one of your nieces but you called each other “cousins” anyway.) You had gone around the city in search of something nice to do: you had hung out at the pizzeria, the hotel, the high-end boutique, and even to the drugstore; still, you were bored. Rain had suddenly whipped your hats away. Your clip-on earrings had fallen into the muddy heap and had floated along the canal. Your summer outfit had stuck to your body and everything felt good. The four of you had laughed, skipped, danced along the street like loose, drunk women. You had had the time of your young lives. Rain always teases the soul of your Savannah.

And of how you had been teased not just by the rain but with the sweet words of men. It had always been a reciprocal fever: flirtation and naivety had chuckled and blushed between both of you. You and the flavor of your month. Or week. You had always been fond of playful talking, sometimes to the point of blatant seduction. But like your Savannah, you had gone home every night and had spent every moon on your bed – dreaming alone.

You want everyone to be enamored by your simplicity, subtle wit, and understated enthusiasm for all things wonderful without expecting a dangerous ride. You nurture them – their thoughts and their pains. You like it when they go home to you, their true north. And if they ask for more than what you give them, you shut them out.

Dusk turns your home into a quiet sanctuary of warmth. Laborers go home, tired but in high spirits still, just like how they had been yesterday and the day before. Farmers return home with sacks of corn and rice from the mill, with their horses, with their hearts. Late nights are for the restless and the debutantes. There are small bars and your neighbors’ houses for that. But for you and everyone else, nights begin with the discovery of home. Once you find it, it’s yours forever; but the magic of its discovery lives on, teasing you always as the sun sets behind the Blue Mountains at your backyard.

You had made your discovery here. Now, you watch as your tears melt with the rain, nourishing the grass under your feet. Naked, you are full of promise, seductive yet serene. Your smile will go to seek certainty. Your smile is wistful and knowing: you are about to live an adventure yet again in an altogether different place. Far from here, you will go to seek certainty. You will go up the steps of imposing buildings, flash your ID at the security guards and officials and walk among the crowds in the busy avenues, indifferent and anonymous. You will wake up thinking about the eggs you’d have to cook for breakfast and sleep, wondering if you still have eggs in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. Soon.

You smile and feel the wind caress your cheek. Manhattan has always been kind to you. It has given you much – even more than you had ever asked for. You love its notoriety, its vivacity, and its flair. But you are soft, so unlike the severe portrait you flash at others. You discriminate and hate; you throw your head back in laughter and gasp at surprises. You cry in silence.

You are the flat stone that boys send rippling across the water, the coffee bean that awakens the writer’s senses in the early morning. You bow your head in sadness and the forest takes you in her arms. You cherish promises and nurture friendships, you embrace memories and more memories, and you treasure your home. Try as it may, the rain can never dampen your spirit, nor can the sun ever burn your hands. You are Savannah. And this, this is home.