i write to believe.

I am not so sure about what to say at the start of the New Year.  All I know is that I find myself ever so carefully treading into this new day.  Not so hyped up about all the greetings and cheer.  Not so dazzled by the fireworks and the thrill  of frenzied laughter.   Perhaps I can say that I'm going into this year quite reflectively.  Not rushing into anything.  Not hurrying into anything.  Primarily because I'd like to begin it again by acknowledging that there is this so-called thing as unforced rhythms of grace.  Something I have started to live by the start of 2010 but somehow found it buried under a heap of busy obligations and unforseen circumstances. I spent today by going to 7am mass with my family.  We went to St. Therese of the Child Jesus Parish like we always do for the past 33 years of my life.  We never miss 7am mass despite the late New Year's Eve family gathering.  I wasn't quite awake yet when we sat on the ...

I have been unexpectedly quiet these past few days.  I'm not sure if I have fully absorbed that I am actually in Cebu already, my hometown, and supposedly rekindling the warm and fuzzy feeling of the holiday cheer and family ties.  I was abruptly interrupted with all the holiday musings when upon our arrival the first order of discussion was the family's succession plan.  Our forebears have bequeathed a huge legacy to us through an educational institution  standing 80 years old.  Some of my relatives work in the place.  Some of my cousins grew up studying there.  But amidst it all is a wounded relationship of ties that keep the organization's core from moving forward.   Oh how I would love to write the saga of our family!  Perhaps even try to make sense of it by uncovering all the stories intertwined in knots hidden from common revelation.  But I can't.  The story isn't finished and I do not think that without a happy and illuminat...

Last night I was sifting through my grandaunt Filomena's journals. She left them for me when she passed away in 2007. This is a memory that I always enjoy reminiscing and I don't know if I'll ever write it down accurately enough but I felt like touching the pages of old notebooks and snippets of little notes scratched on newspapers and postcards she labeled "musings at midnight". The scent of time passing were on the pages and the dust that's collected between them. They reminded me of old libraries and wood paneled walls. She was a widow with no children to her name and all she can held dearly of her life was her one great love. His name was Telesforo Polvorosa, a troubadour who swept her by the feet and showed her the world. Her parents was not so happy about the relationship because he was a divorcee. But her heart was drawn and she never let go. I often wonder about what God would've thought about my grandaunt's life. I remember watching ...