Bring the New Year On!

The year is Zero Zero NYL. In NoYearLand, the passage of time does not exist. Quotes the cuckoo, Nevermore.

Because nothing begins, nothing ends. All is Nil. What Was, What Is, and What Is To Come are not significant­­ because events are in flux. There is no pinpointing the highlights or low points of an event. Forever and a day is a moment that doesn’t come to pass.

Like players in a game of Freeze Tag, the Seasons are at a standstill. Grimy mounds of snow abut stymied growths of green on the sidewalk. The doorway to spring that comes in the morning has been shut. 

Day and Night meld, one into the other. Monday blues don't exist. Hump Day is nowhere in sight. Hours of anticipation bump erratically into those of despair. The Night of Many Dreams comes to a halt. There is no savoring the healing power of Time In Between.

Can this be bliss? The ecstatic inflow into endless time and space? But really? Or is it Blissful Blandness?

Merely this and nothing more.

Won’t it be more exciting to experience… change?! Trial and redemption?!

Watch the first peony awaken.

Struggle to overcome loss.

Revel in a world of amazing hope.

Fill the heart’s empty niche.   

Life is a balance of counterpointing elements. Death is their disarray. Heaven forbid that life on NoYearLand would deprive us of taking the first lovely breath of life when we awaken – each day, each year, each time.

Bring on 2017, and 2018, and on, and on…

Festival of Stars

Parol is an ornamental, star-shaped Christmas lantern from the Philippines, traditionally made out of bamboo and paper.

God hangs stars in the sky. At Christmas time, we hang stars - paper stars, that is, called paroles - on windows and house posts.

My friends and I join the youth group's older teens, already immersed in various stages of the parol-making process. Through years of playful kibitzing in their fund-raising activity, we've gained passable, though rudimentary, skills of the craft. For starters, we know that slim, flattened bamboo reeds make the best lanterns.

If you hold that intersection tightly, I'll tie, Joy says. 

Hand me scraps of the shaved raffia, Little Happiness chimes in.

We carefully bind the end points of two forms, but only after we've inserted short spokes to buttress the central area for a three-dimensional look.

Boy Celo helps us paste wet-spattered sheets over the entire configuration. We add curlicued paper and flowy tails, drop a lit bulb within, and declare the masterpiece, Done! 

We hang the beacon of light on the front windows, as is customary for the neighborhood - causing Fountain Street to look like a watery expanse of fallen stars at night. Bathed in their luminescence, we wait in quiet expectation, for we know that Love always comes down in the morning.

Love all lovely, Love divine.

Water, Water Everywhere

The loop around the Ocean Island neighborhood is about a mile.

I saunter along the finger of land jutting out of the marina and traverse homes nestled cozily against the Ko'olau mountains. Strewn camia petals perfume my path. 

My steps quicken as I spot First Ocean peeking from behind a grassy knoll. Clearly these are waters from the bay that have found their way through the tracts of land that were laid over them. There is no defeating the Primeval Sea. 

Corpulent mountain sides come into view. Shortly after, I see Second Ocean. I follow the curve of the land back to the house.

It is with a shock of recognition that I realize that although standing on solid ground, I'm actually standing on the claimed site of an ancient fishpond and wetlands area. My imagination runs wild. Could the Sea close upon all again?

Then, I recall the words,

O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?
  

Of course! I already know that I can fly, if only in my dreams. And now, I'm walking upon the water as though upon land in days of long ago. Buoyant in this thought, I continue on, with reverent step and slow. 

I do declare, one can walk on water - sort of - on Ocean Island.

Moon Rising

Haiku, written on the last day of the super moon sighting over Oahu

Han Dynasty poets call the rabbit on the moon the Jade Rabbit.

might your potion work,

jade rabbit on rising moon

my soul's thirst to sate.

Surprised By Grace

On seeing a rainbow over Waikiki beach in early December morning









 

THEN.

Native Indian legend says that Colors would quarrel, each boasting of its worth.

Suddenly, thunder and lightning. Followed by Rain.

Rain intervened, admonishing them, Be One, yet distinct and separate as a color. Doing as they were told, Colors united and joined hands.

Rain continued, From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. 

TODAY.
The lore persists. Grace festoons the sky.

All is calm. All is bright.

The waters run through Rainbow's End in heavenly peace.

I Flit, I Float

IN A SAMPAN, ON THE YANGTZE RIVER

It is a dream that has come true. A sampan ride on the Yangtze river.

I am face-to-face with the haze-covered Chongquing mountain. Enthralled by the deep canyons along the Three Gorges and the emerald waters of Wushan.

The feeling is immense: when fantasy collides with the authentic. When a layer of what can only be seen in the mind's eye superimposes itself upon that which is graphic. When that which can only be imagined transforms itself into Here and Now.

However, can that which is perceived visually be mere manufactured reality? An Illusion. A perfect copy of What Is. The shadow in Plato's cave.

And, conversely, can that which has been envisioned be the True Form? An Illusory Reality!

Alternatively, can these dual facets - or better yet, can these and other dimensions, elusive and yet unknown - actually constitute Ultimate Reality: hence resulting into a totality that will remain unfathomable?

Is a puzzlement!

My soul may never fully rise to the world of True Perception, but presently I'll savor my sampan ride on the Yangtze as a tantalizing sliver of the One Comprehensive Unity.

   

Sound of Silence

Your fingers falter on the keyboard. A solfeggio exercise is undeniably a useless endeavor that can only exasperate. The metronome's rhythmic allegro mocks your sluggish notes with impunity.

Then Redemption. A nondescript musical notation called a rest gives you pause.

A large SILENCE library sign. Even a Time Out. They re-calibrate the frenzy of the moment. They make you stop, so you can listen to your mind think.

Siesta perks up the senses. It enables you to hear a gecko's suctioned feet slyly traversing the ceiling toward a corner hideaway.

Quiet Time sharpens your awareness. It makes you attentive to the flirty brushing of the wind against a sentinel of grass.

Time Alone lets you discern the voice that pleads for your heart to beat again.

Particularly in the season of advent, the Sound of Silence can be eloquently powerful. A summons to ponder the Light of Light descending from the realms of endless day.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence. Christ our God to earth descendeth, Our full homage to demand.

Shave Ice - Super Ono!

A Creation Story of Sorts

Hawaiian shave ice is an ice-based dessert made by shaving a block of ice. Ono is a Hawaiian word meaning good to eat. 

1 In the beginning Master Confectioner fashioned a funnel-shaped paper cone. 

2 Now this he coated with dry wax to seal its sides and bottom. But it was empty and void, a dark abyss. And His spirit moved upon the ice cream machine.

3 And He said, Let there be frozen confection within.

4 And Master Confectioner saw the delectable scoop, that it was good: and straight from the churn, deposited it on the bottom of the cone.

5 He deemed it to be premium vanilla.

6 And Master Confectioner said, Let there be sweetness upon this foundation.

7 Thus He gathered a handful of red beans, soft-steamed, then mashed in a soot-covered pot, and laid them over the base of His creation.

8 And Master Confectioner called the dark red paste azuki. And vanilla and azuki were the first two layers.

9 Then He said, Let these be gathered together unto one place, and let a dome appear: and it was so.

10 And Master Confectioner called the cupola of powdery flakes Snow Ice: and He saw that it was good.

11 And He said, Pack the Snow Ice in, mound upon mound: and it was so.

12 Then He brought forth balls of sweet mochi rice cake, tapioca pearls, and fruit jelly and set them in the firmament of the crystalline dome: and He saw that the potpourri of toppings was good. 

13 And Master Confectioner said, Let there be an adornment of enrichment atop the confection: and it was so.

14 Thus He made a trinity of flavors: strawberry, pineapple, and lemon.  That he called Rainbow Special.

15 And Master Confectioner said, Let it have dominion upon the spun ice.

16 So created He the Rainbow Special and Hawaiian Special companion cone - the latter topped with pineapple, coconut, and banana. These whimsical formulations created He them.

17 And Master Confectioner anointest them with a velvety cap of condensed milk.

18 And He said, Behold, I have drenched you with sugary condiments and a multitude of syrups: and it was so.

19 And Master Confectioner said unto them, Be the sweet rewards that you are: delight everyone that cometh to taste your luscious decadence.

20 And He blessed His handiwork, and He said unto them, Let there be a wide array of additional exotic flavors for these epicurean masterpieces - banana, grape, lilikoi, mango, honey dew, and lychee - over which devotees of sensuous desserts could have sovereignty as they choose.

21 And Master Confectioner saw everything that He had made, and, behold, it was very ono.

In Search Of Lost Time

When from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone remain poised... remembering, waiting, hoping; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. - Proust

Breakfast on Saturdays is like no other.  

Not a quick bite of granola bar washed down with instant Taster's Choice, while dashing to beat the college's Almighty Time Keeper or the early church service litany.  
Rather, it is PBJ Day.

You reach into the innermost sanctum of the kitchen cupboard for Jiffy peanut butter. Retrieve bread and strawberry jam from the recesses of the Frigidaire. You slather the delectable elements with care.  Then, partake of the concoction - each bite immediately bringing up with it exquisite memories of times past.

Once again, I am part of the brood of vacationing grandchildren in the house in Balic-Balic.  Fat Mother (my Dadee's mum) is sacramentally apportioning the peanut butter on the still-warm bread of salt, both bought earlier from the corner sari-sari. I lick my lips in anticipation as she administers the blessed sprinkling of muscovado sugar on the sanctified bread.
  
I am poring on each page of the komik-book story of Adarna bird.

Sipping sweet hibiscus nectar, a practice for which I get castigated each time. You want to die?! Mummie exclaims, horrified. 

Wrinkling my nose at the tartness of unripe mangoes from the Forbidden Tree. You'll get a stomach ache that will last forever! First Eldest Brother warns. 

Taking in the toasty smell of roasted cashew at snack time.

I hear the klunk! of empty Carnation cans as we play Kick the Can on a moonlit night. 

I squint at buzzing moths gathered round the lone fluorescent light, awaiting their demise as they get tricked into drowning in a basin of water placed underneath the light.  Alas, they have wrongly surmised the reflection to be the True Light, whereas it is only a garish imitation of the Light of Their Desire.

To this day, a Saturday PBJ breakfast is for me a sacred rite that rekindles the past. In its conquered essence, I discover myself anew.

Embracing Tiger, But No Hidden Dragon

Frolic with nature. In. Slow. Motion.  

An ancient Chinese Supreme Ultimate Exercise ambitiously purports to do just that.  

Venerable Teacher instructs: Make yourself as small as possible. Bend knees for Commencing Posture. 

The movements that follow are rhythmic, graceful, S-L-O-W.  Immerse yourself in the moment.  Savor the curve of your hand, as it reaches sideways.  Then, gently brush your ear; push forward and repulse Monkey.

With a Magic Wand, Teacher conjures Sparrow, Golden Cock - then gives the summons to embrace Tiger!

It's mesmerizing.  In a trance, you dance with Cloud.

You Lift Water and part the Wild Horse's Mane.  

Your feet instinctively execute the T and L positions, for you know that doing so will lead to the Promised Land, flowing with the milk of eternal sunshine and the honey of a spotless mind.

In The Beginning

It all started with The Bonfire.

Small heaps of dried maple leaves.  Matted, mottled, decaying, unrecognizable in their current form.  The surprise of thin sheets of ice interspersed.

Then, bulkier heaps toppled onto the Original Heap.  A more diverse mix this time with twigs and wrinkled crab apple berries.  A large dollop of dead-headed mums.
  
It became more interesting when Fire Was Kindled - at first flickering, then a sppft, then billowing smoke, finally the triumph of Flame.  The Bonfire was all-consuming, all-powerful, non-discriminating.

When all seemed to be over, a cloud of gray presided over the Original Heap, now leveled.  

I declared it finished and proceeded to leave.  

But there was a glimpse of a spark.  

I knew then, and really have known it all along, that all it would take was that spark to keep The Fire going.