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.