Bounty from the post office

My incoming mail is received by my sister Ellen Suzy Lolarga in Pasig because postal service in Baguio is erratic. Outgoing from the centrally located post office on downtown Session Road is reliable. But door-to-door delivery is a la tsansa. So my correspondents and I have agreed to send mail to our family's Pasig address. Suzy waits awhile for the mail to make a slight pile before sending them by courier service to Baguio. I know--it sounds like another of my impractical projects. Ray Dean Salvosa, former president of the University of the Cordilleras, once said I was one of the few he knew who still used the post office for messages. He asked why I don't use email. Well, kind sir, I do use email, mostly for business correspondence. But ever since I was a child, I was enamored with slow mail. So imagine my delight when an envelop from Virginia's Poet Laureate, Luisa A. Igloria, spilled this much paper richness--two poems by her ("Man Shoveling Snow on a Unicycle Dressed as Darth Vader While Playing Flaming Bagpipes" and "Yes, Or No"), a bookmark showing a reproduction of a Japanese painting ("Evening Snow in Kamubara"), four blank postcards, including literary ones feaaturing lines from Charles Baudelaire and Voltaire. Also in Suzy's parcel are letters from poet Marj Evasco in her refined script, artist Arlene Esperida with a quick sketch of a tiger, tiger burning bright and Ogot Sumulong and his collage. A good Friday, indeed!

Still life in Bohol

Pablo Tariman thinks I must've descended from the line of Francisco Dogohoy, he who waged the longest revolt in Philippine history. It comes from my attraction to the province of Bohol. I've visited neighboring Cebu just as many times, but there's nothing like the appeal of people and landscape of Bohol.

I've always envied poet Marjorie Evasco because she has this province to go home to again and again. On our last trip there with Rolly Fernandez in 2014, she brought us to the house restored by aesthete Ino Manalo.

Something clicked in my mind that I brought out my digicam and shot picture after picture. Everywhere I turned there was something worth preserving in digital memory.

The enhanced community quarantine permitted me time to go over these files. What was on my mind as I took them? Perhaps the wish that one day I'd show them to my painting tutor, Norman Chow, with the thought that he'd guide me through a series of works in acrylic on paper canvas. It was never to be. Norman died in 2018.

I don't know about the fate of Ino's house--if I can ever "go home" there again one day. Meantime, I'm left with these images.

Paper cranes

Folded paper cranes on my keyboard

Last night my only grandchild opened the wings of these four paper cranes made by a poet friend, Marj Evasco. It is Marj's Christmas tradition to fold paper to shape these cranes.

Kai, my little one, was supposed to make four wishes, the wise poet said in her letter: one for herself, one for her family, one for her pet dog and one for the planet Earth, her home.

I got teary-eyed when I read the letter aloud to her, this child who has taken to also writing letters via snail mail, designing her own stationery pads with origami paper which she spells "organic papar" and wishing her pen pals "Amare Christmas" after her favorite Italian restaurant Amare La Cucina at Albergo Hotel, Villamor Drive, Baguio.

Today my husband will hang the cranes on our Christmas tree, and I will make a silent wish that Kai, who now owns a child-size fountain pen, will remain the way she is for a very long time.

Carpe diem, women of the world

“We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” - Toni Morrison

Trust poet Marjorie "Marj" Evasco to be psychic and send an International Women's Day greeting accompanied with a quote from the Nobel laureate Morrison. The quotation strikes close to home because I've been reflecting on mortality with the current plague of illness in the house (I'll reserve details on those in the farthest future).

Let it suffice that we, especially if you're reading this, are alive, and if we're sensitive enough, we can stop, smell or admire flowers. Flowers fascinate me because they symbolize life so much, how flowers start from seeds followed by the budding, then blossoming into full beauty only to fade, droop, drop and die in the end.

Carpe diem on this of all days in the year!

Photos by Babeth Lolarga

Against all odds we made it to our 31st year

My husband Rolly and I made it to our pearl anniversary last year, and I did a Beatles gig on this space, rewriting Lennon and McCartney's "When I'm 64." Philstar's Millet Martinez Mananquil took note of it and appreciated that blog entry, and she ran it on a Sunday issue of her Life section. Sure! I said. Rolly, I felt, needed more affirmation how kainis guwapo he is.

On our 30th, we treated ourselves to a yoga and wellness retreat organized by poet Marj Evasco in her home province of Bohol. Rolly was open to the idea--that was triumph enough when I asked if he'd like to join us. I told Marj he would join the healthy meals, Bimboy Peñaranda's book launch and talk on disaster preparedness and a different spiritual view on how to get ready and not be in panic mode. But I couldn't guarantee if Rolly would be there for all yoga sessions with our teacher, Ajita Reyes.

Damn right the missus was, but he looked quite relaxed from that look weekend. I have these pictures to remind me of that rare couple holiday that we enjoyed.

Rolly admires the Chocolate Hills of Carmen, Bohol. Photo by Babeth Lolarga

Ajita Reyes, yoga teacher (middle), is flanked by her students Babeth and Marj Evasco. Photo by Rolly Fernandez

Now that we made it to our 31st year, radical changes are being made here and there, one of which is reaffirming a commitment to one another (walang iwanan muna) in the spirit of our Roman Catholic vows of "for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."

We affirmed not to make promises of obedience to either one as coached by our Life Coach Gilda Cordero Fernando when she hosted a tsokolate't pinipig afternoon following the lunch Rolly treated us to at Alab by Chef Tatung on Scout Rallos, Quezon City. Love, honor, yes, but "obey"? Only dogs go to obedience school, no slur aimed at dogs. Our witnesses this time included Gou de Jesus and her Ernie (Ernesto Enriquez), Gilda Cordero, Bobbie Malay and Nash Tysmans.

Gilda made us switch roles for the "wedding picture" with Rolly seated and I standing with Bobbie's face reflected on the mirror. Bobbie's Dad Armando was our July 26, 1984, wedding sponsor. All wedding sponsors are dead. Of the two women who signed their names on our marriage certificate, Nieves B. Epistola is especially missed during the month of July. (She had a birthday the other day.)

Our wedding photog in 1984 was Jerry Araos. When we celebrated our 31st jubilee in advance on July 23 this year, Nash Tysmans, Wig and Carole's daughter (herself a skilled photographer, writer, educator--a woman wearing many berets) did the photo documentation duty. The luncheon was as intimate as our wedding dinner in '84 at Nielsen Tower was.

And on the seventh day, the God we recognize rested. We two are resting, too, he in Baguio, I in Pasig.

What's new, pussycat? Sing it to me, Rolly!

Not a wallflower at a party

Or so I think. I just couldn't forgive myself if I missed a milestone like F. Sionil Jose's 90th birthday party. Occasions like that are about the only time I see, press palms with or buss my writing mentors, idols and confreres. A friend said that in her excitement, she hyperventilated that night and forgot to have her picture taken with friends she hadn't seen in a long time.

While I was recuperating in Baguio from an ailment I would rather not discuss at length and my husband was forced to stay home and stay still because of a knee fracture, we went on a reading marathon of Manong Frankie's short stories and novels. It reached a point where we'd try to discuss what we had read and ended up mixing the characters and plots. Rolly counted how many times Frankie used the word "sybarite" in a novel. That sounds like my husband all right. You can keep the editor at home but not the editor from NOT working.

Thank you to the people who pressed the button of my camera so I can have a few mementos of the evening of Dec. 3 at the Cultural Center's main lobby.

Alfredo Roces, who I've been reading since high school, the birthday boy and fictionist Rony Diaz

It was Manong Frankie who told my class of high school kids: "You must not forgive a writer his sins just because he's a good writer." He's shown with a reader who's glad to have a few seconds with him before he was deluged with more well-wishers.

With Tessie Jose, who continues to make Frankie's life of letters possible, and sculptor Julie Lluch. Manang Tessie has kept her figure. This was the same outfit she wore when Frankie turned 80.

The heavyweights' table, only because two other National Artists for Literature are sharing space: Bienvenido Lumbera and Cirilo Bautista. The writers' wives are by their side, too: Shayne Lumbera and Rose Bautista.

Ka Satur Ocampo and Ka Universe Gilda Cordero Fernando

Three muses of literature Susan Lara, Marj Evasco and Gilda

Two publishing greats: Eugenia "Eggie" Apostol and Gilda yet again

Celeste Legaspi sings "Gaano Kita Kamahal" for the birthday celebrator (he with the black beret)

Blurry though it may seem this precious photo of laughing writing couple Roger and Fe Mangahas is full of meaning to me: love conquers all, especially dictatorships, aging and personal tragedies.

The untouched birthday cake that features likenesses of the covers of Frankie's novels. The cake people flocked to was the one baked by Estrel's, specializing in caramel cakes. It was given by the University of Santo Tomas's The Varsitarian which Frankie edited in his youth.

Dagohoy country once again

Part of Bohol's Chocolate Hills, the picture taken from the steps leading to the view deck

These are two bloggers who I follow regularly: Lorianne DiSabato, who can be found at her hoardedordinaries.wordpress.com, and Vivienne Gucwa at her travelinglens.me. When I'm not reading a book for leisure or leisurely penning postal mail, I visit these neighbors on my playlist.

Morning sky over the municipality of Carmen

When I'm stuck and flailing like someone about to drown when my life raft of words drifts hundreds of meters away, I linger longer than usual at Lorianne's and Vivienne's sites (even the end syllables of their names have a nice rhyming ring to them). I listen to their voices, look at their images, and I'm reminded to pick up where I was interrupted--a plain narrative, even if it's just my own or someone else's story.

Sunday being rest day and the need to recover from the past weeks is so strong that sometimes I succumb to the lure of a nap not during siesta hour but at mid-morn, I shook off the lethargy by doing the kaoshiki dance that I learned two years ago from yogi Ajita Reyes. I relearned it from her when she joined us during that long weekend in the south.

By the sea getting ready to salute the sun

Yesterday I minimized the pixels of some pictures that I took of some September days spent with people who poet Marj Evasco invited to experience "wide-awake dreaming". The "retreat" from the familiar world made room for slowing-down rituals: yoga, sunrise or sunset meditation, healthy semi-vegetarian or fully vegetarian meals, listening to fellow poet Jose Victor Peñaranda's speak on emptiness and awareness. There was time as well to see how Bohol province is rising or has risen from last year's 7.2 magnitude earthquake.

We had what the bees of Bohol Bee Farm also had: flowers!

The small Busay falls nevertheless emits a roar as water forcefully meets water.

About as large as a woman's fist and most of the times receding, this tarsier peeks from under his cover of a dry, brittle leaf

This forest, called a man-made or "artificial" one, covers land in Bilar that once was made barren by slash-and-burn agriculture. However, it's an eerily silent cathedral of green, save for the sound of vehicles rushing by. It's a lesson for those in the reforestation movement: plant a diverse number of trees to make possible the visitation of birds and other fauna.

The light that lit Bohol during several weeks of no power after the earthquake is sheer Pinoy ingenuity: small stones lined the bowls like this one, cotton balls were rolled, placed inside and floated on used cooking oil, then lit with a match. The practice continues to heighten the mood when dining under the stars.

So whether it's an inward-turned tremblor shaking one's being or surviving a big one out there, the hardy, unsinkable Boholanons have set the example of moving forward, of rising above the rubble. Daghang salamat. Padayon indeed.

Photos by Babeth Lolarga

While there is time

From the plane's porthole, the clouds give the illusion of a huge wave of water perfect for sky surfing!

"We feel melancholy when we consider:

"The things we love are transient.

"Yesterday will never come back. Every day you take a step nearer to death. The people who cared for us when we were young are getting older. We’ll be following their path to decline soon enough.

"No one truly understands anyone else, loneliness is basic, universal. Every life has its full measure of shame and sorrow. We spend our lives striving for things we mostly don’t get – and if we do, we are soon disappointed.

"They’ll grow up; they’ll encounter money worries, the difficulty of making a career, addictions, political conflict, illnesses and relationship frustrations...

"We are melancholy when we grasp that there are deep troubles essentially bound up with being human. And to take that fully to heart is to become more compassionate.

"Religions have been advocates of melancholy. The Christian Book of Common Prayer gives a statement to be recited at funerals:

"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower. In the midst of life we are in death.

"It’s intended to strike home a universal, melancholy thought. At the funeral of a loved one we are not just witnessing the passing of one life. We are invited to see each other – and ourselves – as dying animals. This should not make us desperate, but rather more forgiving, kinder and better able to focus on what really matters, while there is still time."

-Excerpted from the essay "In Praise of Melancholy," found in thephilosophersmail.com/virtues/in-praise-of-melancholy/

Two boats off the shore of Panglao Island, Bohol

I have no inkling about the identity of the writer of these words that I found today. Were they written by Monsieur Alain de Botton himself (poet Marj Evasco introduced me to his works)? Or was it by one of many other contributors to The Philosophers Mail, the School of Life that teaches EQ? There is no byline or tagline to help me in the attribution to a source.

But the essay, the first online matter I happened upon this morning, captures down to the last punctuation mark what has been causing the roiling that has been going inside my shell. These rough waters are safely unseen by the world.

Morning sun and banana leaf

As I re-sized the photos I shot from a recent trip to Bohol, I realized anew that I could relearn and not tire of certain lessons, certain sightings that teach me about life's fleetingness. These lessons make the contradictions of every day bearable like the need to be social and at the same time a strong compulsion to isolate oneself (get thee to a cloister where nuns can leave you be until you are ready to be with the world), the need to be still and quiet and the necessity of speaking up, asserting, etc.

During those five days I rose before sunrise to open the sliding doors that led to a balcony in one of the rooms of the Bohol Bee Farm. I beheld another morning in a place both familiar and un- (I seem to be drawn by an unseen magnet to Dagohoy country; I've visited it a few times, but recently it felt like I was seeing it with a child's pair of eyes).

Several times I stood by the rails to watch the synchronized flight of black birds headed purposefully towards the east where the sun rose over the Mindanao Sea. The sight never failed to strike me dumb. Yes, I stood there at a loss for words. In failing to find those words, I was humbled.

I see them in the north, and now that I see them in the south. These flowers seem like longtime friends with whom one picks up a thread of conversation that dropped temporarily as I got too busy like a bee to meet each day's most quiet need and want.

Another purpose-filled species: black ants

There is a line from Victor Peñaranda's Lucid Lightning: Poems & Prose that closes a deeply moving tribute to the late Clovis Nazareno, his friend and fellow poet of passion : "...we can become the sky, the land and sea we so dearly love. Nothing can happen to us. We can go on and on. When we die, the light in the wilderness will redeem us." Photos by Babeth Lolarga

Brookside bibi & famille say thanks for the follow

"To be strong yet vulnerable--this is how we live on this earth. A big embrace."--New Year SMS from poet Marj Evasco 

Blood was no typo on your part
For in your words I recognize a life force
Where I find
The solace
That these days collect
Like impossible raindrops
In the frozen snow
Outside the window of this
My winter's discontent.

--Jorge V. Ledesma, writing from his Colorado isolation

With a bib tucked in her shirt, the blogger is ready for another Yuletide repast.

On our favorite couch by the Christmas tree at Mario's

Blurry photo of Lolarga-Fernandez family with house guests Sinag de Leon and Raya Amado. Sinag's son Dakila couldn't keep still and decided to play with Kai's toy car.

At the beginning of this year, I must say that our happily dysfunctional family has managed to stay intact through the decades. 

 

Has it been that long since Rolly and I decided to hitch our lives to a star and gamble (it does seem like a roll of the dice), take a chance on what Simone de Beauvoir called "an obscene institution"?  This year just past, I learned something new--that your chances of coming out a winner from a casino range from 30 to 40 per cent.

Ida Fernandez with her Tatay and her niece Kai holding the figurine of a lighted angel

Chit Roces and Vergel Santos, colleagues in writing and journalism, drop by for coffee and chat.

Hmmm. Call us Mr. and Mrs. Lucky Us then! And many a time it was our kids, Kimi and Ida, and now our granddaughter, who have helped keep the union intact. Add to that, the fellowship of friends and an extended family of children and grandchildren of our own co-parents.

In a country where Christmas is celebrated the longest, the Lolarga and Fernandez families wish to thank those who've stayed with us. The blogger, channeling Meryl Streep, also thanks her 21 ++ followers who saw her through her ups and downs, enjoyed the roller-coaster of life with her and screamed along with her, with arms and hands held high, as the ride swooped down.

Here's to more and more of the same!

Shall we dance after this meal at that Baguio classic, Cafe by the Ruins?

Source of topmost photo: "Here's the Thing," an online column by Ben Patterson

Photos taken by Suzy and Babeth Lolarga, Rolly Fernandez and an anonymous waiter