New Beginnings

Just when the caterpillar thought his life was over... he began to fly. - Proverb

The year is drawing in, its dead-end part looming. The house is dark as the boughs of the crabapple tree lean against the window. Snow is piled on the deck railing outside. 

Yet there's something soft in the air today, some new optimism, that rhythmic fiction of early spring, so sweet to be deceived by. I feel as if a page were turning. 

Maybe it's the weak winter sun shining through, gleaming off the moist bark of the trees. Maybe it's the quiet promise of a warming feeling underneath the bite of wet and the chill of the cutting wind.

So I close my eyes to old ends, and suddenly I know. 

Hold the smile, let the tear go. Keep the laughter, lose the pain. Look for joy, and abandon the fear.  

It's time to start something different and trust the magic of new beginnings.

From Me, To You!

Simple Gifts

By By, Lully, Lullay

Simple Gifts

Lullay, thou little tiny child. - Lyrics, Coventry Carol

I'm looking at a pink crocheted ball that's about an inch in diameter. I've just made a doll's head, I say tentatively. In amigurumi style, no less. Amigurumi is the Japanese art of crocheting small, stuffed yarn creatures. Thus encouraged, I dutifully follow the rest of the pattern to complete my nativity set.

It has taken me several days to finish, and I now peruse the figures in my creche, marveling how a series of single-crochet stitches can create forms which when sewn together and stuffed can result into distinctive-looking characters. I beam at them and gush, You've come alive.

They look at me with wide-set French-knotted eyes. Mary's sweep of brown bangs peeks underneath a disproportionately-long veil. I stare amazed at the male figures' beard. How manly-looking! I'm quite satisfied as to how their elaborate head coverings have turned out. The magi each bears a crocheted mini yellow ball, their gift to Baby Jesus. Joseph carries a staff made from brown floral stem. All have been robed elaborately with a colorful outer garment.

The baby's head is topped with a curly tuft of hair made of yarn. He's snuggled in a white blanket set on a brown manger. Cut pieces of green yarn simulate hay. And, yes, the requisite donkey brays its completion. An ojo de Dios, literally 'God's eye,' woven out of yarn around two crossed sticks is on standby as the guiding star.

I carefully position my dolls in the moss-covered twig stable purchased from Goodwill. 

Mary looks at her newborn over distant eyes, like someone one might see in dreams, her face serene. She unconsciously narrows her eyes and purses her mouth as she contemplates her surroundings. Then the corners of her mouth turn up, her smile like a slice of summer watermelon. My soul gives glory to the Lord, she whispers, her hands in prayer. She contemplates all the things that have been said to her, pondering them in her heart.

Elongated by the lamplight, Joseph's shadow looms over his family. His high forehead creases into rows of parallel wrinkles. Heavy brows form a straight line underneath. Looking as placid as the man on the moon gazing down upon earth, he fixes his eyes on the infant, fine lines forming out from their corners, as if he were teaching him something important. You shall be named Jesus, he gently says.

The baby stares at Joseph without blinking, the way one looks at a stranger or some unknown object. Then his faces brightens with a small encouraging smile.

Outside, the sky has cleared and a single star is the only light, yet it dazzles, filling the entire heavens. A donkey grazes quietly on the outskirts of the stable, as if it were holding its breath, waiting. Then the strain of music, soft and distant, floats in from some invisible herald of angels. 

The air changes, becoming electric as the Magi walk into the stable. I marvel at how they have come at once without anyone having to invite them, as if they had been summoned there by magic. After strutting back and forth, gesturing grandly, they stand around the manger.

We have seen His star in the East, the first one begins, his finely-cut lips relaxed into a half smile. His eyebrows are expressive, rising and lowering at various angles. 

The second visitor's eyebrows are thick and very black, tilting up at the corners, but his eyes crinkle up as he smiles. The star led us by night with a light on the road which we should travel, he says humbly.

The third one has sagging jowls. His brows, drawn together, are dark as well, but even though his tone is gruff, his watery eyes twinkle as he lapses into babbling idiocy with the infant. You're the promised Messiah, he says amiably, stepping quickly toward the baby. The latter seems to like it. He breaks into a broad toothless grin as he looks at him. 

The night is so silent that I can hear the sound of distant stars moving across the heavens. I feel like only this moment, unanchored and drifting free of time, exists.  

A Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

Simple Gifts

I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really.

Maybe it just needs a little love. - Linus

It will be a Minimalist Christmas.

I will no longer ask for gifts. No strung luminarias, wreaths of holly and mistletoe, and lit greenery festooned on the stair railing, I say soberly. There will be no frantic search for the tallest Noble fir. In fact, the singular yule feature in our home will be a Charlie Brown tree.

Some assembly required, it says on the box. I nod slowly. That should be a cinch. To my piddly humming of O Tannenbaum, I eagerly proceed to open the small, longish box. 

Inside is a shabby, slender branch with a side shoot of a smaller twig that is covered with brown florist tape. It's like papier-mache around wire. The sparse pine needles randomly scattered on the otherwise-barren limbs are made of synthetic pine straw made from recycled polypropylene. 

I set the sad-looking bough onto the base made of two crisscrossed slim pieces of wood. Fully extended, the tree stands about a couple of feet high. It looks rickety, but I carefully balance the scanty branches. There, it shouldn't topple over now, I say crisply, with a reassuring smile.

With a mock formal tilt of the head and my lower lip protruded, I stare at the scrawny configuration firmly. I take two steps closer. After it's fully adorned, my Christmas tree will be just right, I muse thoughtfully. Besides, I think... It. Needs. Me. I whisper, putting great emphasis on the final three words and patting the air in a soothing gesture.

I unwrap the red ornament from the blue Linus blanket that is included and hang it strategically on a side branch which promptly flops over to one side instead of remaining upright. That looks nice just the way it is, I say out loud, solemnly clasping my hands.

Outside, a wintry wind rattles the bare, black branches of the cottonwood trees. Stars wheel through the sky, and the moon trickles its golden light over the canopy of night. The lights of the city dance in the far distance like a band of fireflies. I peer over my tree and reflect on Linus' heartfelt recitation of the Christmas story.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field,

keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord

shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not; for, behold,

I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

I fall into silence, drawn by the astonishing import of the gospel news. 
This, I say in a soft, hushed voice, is what Christmas is all about. 

I swear I can see a multitude of the heavenly host nodding in agreement.

Puto Bumbong

Simple Gifts

In my island home, Misa de Gallo or Rooster's Mass is held in the early morning from December 16-24 in anticipation of the birth of Jesus.

Putò bumbóng is a purple, sticky rice dessert steamed in bamboo tubes, buttered, then sprinkled with sugar and shredded coconut.
Dali means hurry up. Kakanin - dessert. Manang is a title of respect for elderly women. Sarap - delicious.

I look over to the east. It is almost dawn. A thin light filters through the curtains. I'm still drowsy with sleep, but nothing will entice me to wake up for Misa de Gallo than the prospect of a puto bumbong snack afterward.

Dadee barks a laugh, Ready to go? My voice sharpens in response, Ready! as I race to the front door.

Sidewalks are already busy. People are conferring happily and talking in excited tones. A handful of children are runnning barefoot, laughing and shouting. They yell in hurried tones, Dali! Waving, I grin down on them. Along the way, I crane my neck at busy tables groaning with sweets and take in the smell of ginger tea, hot chocolate, and roasted rice coffee. My smile grows, seeing the white lights gleam, strung from one corner of makeshift tienda stores to the other.

The allure of delicious kakanin has made it hard for me to focus on the church service. Deaconess Afrie welcomes both the bright-eyed folks and those whom she says will need a toothpick to hold their eyelids up. I make an effort to perk up as I realize that she may be referencing the latter remark to me. 

The pastor takes his stand on the pulpit. My brothers and sisters in Christ, welcome to today's celebration. Dawn is arriving and the light of day is upon us, he begins cheerfully. The choir responds with a voice that  rises, passion upon passion, leading us in the singing of Las Mananitas, the "little morning" song. 

I stare at him. Please make the sermon short today, my mouth begins to contort. I vaguely hear some reference to penance. After the communal blessing, we respond with the act of contrition. Then with the rest of the faithful, I recite requisite litanies that resound off the walls of the parish, feeling out the stone arches. Is it over yet? I ask, leaning toward Dadee confidentially. He shushes me. After seemingly never-ending prayers, I hear, Amen. I smile broadly as I scurry outside to my favorite stall. I'm famished. 

I observe the creation of the puto bumbong, my expression rapt. In a large bowl, Manang Rosa mixes the purple yam powder and glutinous rice flour. Then she gradually adds enough water to make a dough. Her adept hands knead it smoothly. 

I cock my head in hopeful anticipation, How much longer, Manang? She answers, Sandali na lang. Soon, with exaggerated patience. 

Gingerly, she pinches off about two tablespoons of the dough, shaping it into an elongated five-inch roll. She greases a narrow bamboo tube with oil and pushes the dough through, then sets it on top of a cylindrical base inside of which are coralled smoldering hot coals. In less than five minutes, the sticky delicacy is done. She shakes it loose from the bumbong tube, tops it with margarine, muscovado sugar, and grated coconut. Heto! Here! she says, pride ringing in her voice as she hands me the still-warm treat.

I immediately unfold the banana leaves in which the puto has been wrapped. 
I take one small bite, humming as I press it with my tongue to the high curve of my mouth to make it last. It is so good that I want to go there, to that delicate taste on the roof of my mouth and melt there. Sarap! I continue to nibble at one end of it until it has disappeared between my lips. I use my fingers to lop off its oily topping. The coconut flakes get all over my vestida dress. 

Light is spilling out on the street. People are milling about, children's loud squeals are echoing off the houses. I slowly walk home, my face beaming with satisfaction. 

There are times when life is limitless in its simplicity.

Good Food, Good Friends, Good Times

Gather Around

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of life is etched in the senses - when things are sweeter and simpler, when doors are always left unlocked, and people gather around food.

It is in this spirit that I share with you my top ten thoughts this Thanksgiving season.

1 When in doubt, bake cookies.

2 A party without cake is just a meeting. - Julia Child

3 People who love to eat are always the best people.

4 The best part of waking up is a mimosa in your cup.

5 I never met a meal I didn't like . - Miss Piggy

6 Chocolate is the answer. Who cares what the question is?

7 You only live once, lick the bowl.

8 Stressed is just desserts spelled backwards.

9 The only two certainties in life are: I'm going to get coffee, and I'm going to drink that coffee.

10 Oh, 'pilates?' I thought you said, 'pie and lattes.'

Life is about moments that whisper of times when you wake up in the middle of the night with a great ice cream sundae idea; of distance as you travel to the fridge to follow your dream.

And life like a rainbow of sprinkles arches between, connecting the melting
ganache to a pan of fudgy brownies.

In The Tshering Farmhouse

Gather Around

Bhutan, known as the Land of the Thunder Dragon, is a tiny and remote kingdom nestling in the Himalayas between India and China. The Tshering Farmhouse is a popular place to get a taste of traditional Bhutanese meal. 

Little moments make life big.

Take a different path. Find another way. Pick a road less traveled. That's exactly the plan for today, to proceed away from the city and out into the rustic Tshering farmhouse in Paro. 

Our local driver skillfully maneuvers the van, lurching over potholes and honking at groups of children playing on the dusty streets, warning them to get out of the way. At an intersection, a sturdy if stubborn cow blocks the way. We continue on off the main road, down a rutted, rocky lane. It ends at the start of the field of the Tshering farmhouse. Raising his eyebrows, our guide Kuenzang announces with childlike enthusiasm, Nalu! We're here! 

The flight up the narrow-treaded stairs leads to a curtained entry way. We are gently nudged to remove our shoes. Kuzoozangpo la, our host murmurs the appropriate welcome. 

Past the foyer, we peer through a second curtained doorway from where we are ushered into a squarish common room with uneven wood flooring. Along its three walls are long, thick blankets for seating. In the middle of the room is a wood furnace. We are gestured to squat and at once offered oja milk tea by our host. Smiling with eagerness, she holds up a bag of what looks like toasted buckwheat. We surmise her wordless gesture to mean that the crunchy grain will be delicious with the warm drink. She then meekly disappears behind the doorway.

Looking around, I see bits and pieces of the homeowners' lives in the neatly-folded quilts, soot-covered pots, sacks of barley and maize leaning against the wood cupboards, and the bright red and green chilis spread out to dry on a smallish table.

From a nearby room, I hear the occasional banging of pans. Food... I mumble. I'm hungry. The pungent aroma of freshly-ground spices that are familiar and yet cannot be readily named wafts in the air. 

Soon enough, dinner is served. Dishes come quickly. Small pots of steaming food, blurry with color and fragrant, are set on the floor. For starters, we're offered boiled red rice. It is a staple. I scoop a dollop on my plate. It's pale pink, soft and slightly sticky. 

Instinctively, we take out a small sanitizer bottle before proceeding further on but glancing sideways, I note our company each taking a pinch of the rice from their plate and rolling it between their palms into a small ball. I show a quizzical look and wonder, Is this the way to eat the rice? Perhaps sensing my quandary, Kuenzang explains with a gleam in his eyes, We clean our hands. Like this, then discards the rice ball.

Everyone starts to unceremoniously eat with their bare hands. Fun! I'm thinking, but our hosts have thoughtfully handed us a couple of spoons. According to Bhutanese etiquette, when offered food, one says, Meshu meshu, covering one's mouth with the hands in refusal and only giving in on the second or third offer. But I ignore protocol.

We ladle onto our plates a helping of the ubiquitous national dish, ema datshi, made from chili peppers and cheese. Our guide quickly explains, Ema means chili, and datshi means cheese. I give a soft grunt of approval after the first mouthful. The chilis give a wonderful bite. The potatoes, mushrooms, eggplant, and carrots organically grown in the farm, sauteed with dried beef in pork fat, are fresh on the tongue. The fried edible ferns are my favorite. Zhim bay. Delicious.

When all is finished, we are politely offered an after-dinner drink of ara, a homemade rice spirit. But what about dessert? Preferably exotic and sweet, has been the unspoken wish that keeps nagging in my ears. Our driver must have read my mind, for he casually comments, No need for dessert. 

He then retrieves a pouch from within the ample fold of his gho robe. This, he quips, with a glimmer of humor in his eyes, better than dessert. It is the seed of the betel palm, along with leaves of the betel pepper and slaked lime, which he offers. We politely decline, while everyone, our hosts included, proceeds to chew - their reddened lips curled in a wide, satisfied smile and a sense of well-being.

We talk about this night becoming just a dream. But tomorrow, the dream will be better. Because you can make the dream whatever you want it to be, I say softly. The conversation is animated. Hands wave through the air in a relaxed gesture with each remark, each joke, as the night lengthens. 

It makes me fantasize how I can retreat from the world and take up a solitary life in such company, in such a house, on such a piece of terrain.

Tea Time In A Yurt

Gather Around

Yurt is a portable, round tent covered with animal skin that is used as a dwelling by nomads in the steppes of Central Asia.

By offering hospitality, one participates in the endless reweaving
of a social fabric on which all can depend - thus the gift of sustenance
for the guest becomes a gift of hope for the host.- Parker Palmer

It is said that here, people drink three cups of tea. The first, you are a stranger. The second, you become a friend; and the third, you join the family. Our host is a yoruk nomadic family in Anatolia, Turkey.

Merhaba, our lady host greets us, her eyes peering from the slit of her face veil. She is dressed in brightly-colored and flower-patterned salvar trousers and a chemise that goes down to the ankle. She offers me my first cup of elma cayi apple tea. 

Seated on a kilim rug in a yurt, I cautiously take sips from the small tulip-shaped glass. It makes the loose tea glow like amber. The herbal drink is sweet, slightly tart, with a mild apple flavor. I survey the surroundings over the rim of my cup. The tent is black and rectangular. Made of woven black goat hair, our guide Mele says knowingly.

It feels cozy. Inside, the walls are lined with sheep's wool which is also used to make coats for the shepherds. It's a windowless all-purpose space for eating, sleeping, working, and other social activities, although an area on the side is used for cooking and food preparation. Weavings in subdued reds, browns, and yellows decorate the interior. Its door is oriented to the warmth and sunlight of the south. 

Our male host leans forward and sips his tea. He converses immediately, Mele readily translating for him. We have just migrated upland for the winter, and will stay here until the warmer months come. 

He nonchalantly muses on their long journey. It takes us two weeks or even a month! I listen attentively, even as I'm drawn to his attire, from the sarik covering on his head to the long robe neatly folded atop loose trousers and the yemeni sandals on his feet.

After slurping his drink, he continues, The clan slowly gets going. Children and the elderly go on horseback, as do the heads of families, but most travel on foot. The beasts of burden follow behind.

The grandmother lights a small fire, after which she brings over a fresh pot of tea. She tests its color and gives it a dissatisfied stir. Then she wobbles the spout against our cup rims and offers a second serving.

Her son tosses her a roguish wink, Cami yıkılmış ama mihrab yerinde. He manages an impish grin when she glances at him sharply. The mosque is a ruin but the mihrap is standing, our guide quips, smiling. She continues to explain, He has just given his mother a compliment, saying that despite being older, she has retained her charm. We nod in approval, giving a breathy chuckle. It’s like saying a church is in ruins but the pulpit is standing.

I inspect the motifs on the kilim with admiration, though my brows are wrinkled in thought. Mele explains before I can ask. A female figure symbolizes motherhood and fertility. Other designs like the wolf's foot is for the protection of flocks from wolves. Pointing to an eye encased in a blue circle, she adds with dramatic flourish, That is for protection against the evil eye.

The woman of the house pours us a third cup of tea. I can smell its strong, sweet aroma. Steam curls up from the hot liquid.

The chatter continues. I surmise that Turks love to converse, often at length, and about nothing in particular. More than that, I sense their innate respect for the rites of hospitality. As Mele explains in her characteristic nasal tone, The traditional nomadic tent is set up in readiness for company for one sole reason - because guests are sent by Allah and usually arrive without warning. 

Where I am, at the moment, seems strangely attractive. It is quiet and restful, yet cheery as well, where folk can stay to sit and drink tea and talk. I wish there were some way to stop the late afternoon light from traveling any further across the living area so we can go on, talking and listening to interpreted banter over an endless cup of apple cha, but we have to go.

We're sent off with a fond Güle güle gidin. May you go laughing. Water is thrown behind our vehicle as it pulls away. It is a wish for a smooth journey, as smooth as water.

I have forgotten my tiredness. At this moment, I don't have to wrestle with the question of how deep time is, or how much I have to understand what time is. Right now, I'm not thinking ahead in years and months but just about this hour, and maybe the next. 

Anything else is speculation.

Kain Na!

Gather Around

This series celebrates the season's spirit of community and gratitude, when friends and family - really everybody, and it doesn't matter where one is from - gather together, enjoying food and drink.

Luto-lutuan means play-cooking using a miniature clay set consisting of a palayok pot, frying pan, and stove. Kain na means Let's eat. Luto na - It's cooked. Saan yung tuyo? - Where's the dried fish?

The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.

- Carl Jung

I look at the blue sky and hear, Cheep-cheep, from the maya birds in the garden, and in the distance, the dogs. Everything has a Sunday calm. The day is clear and crisp, the air like polished crystal. A line of black ants is sorting through the ground, wrestling small mounds and piling leaves in a heap. On afternoons like this, lutu-lutuan is one of my favorite things to do. 

Over there! First Cousin Vicky says quickly. Running toward Grandfather Gorio's backyard, we stop and look for the place where the big spider has made its web right across the path. We don't want to break it, Youngest Cousin Dondi cautions. We go around and sit under the acacia tree. The branches hang very low, close to the ground, so we feel safe. 

We quickly set up our cooking implements. My palayok is unglazed, about four inches in diameter and a couple of inches deep. We line its bottom with banana leaf. Here's the rice, Vicky says, smiling broadly as she carefully pours a handful from a folded paper package into the pot.

Now the water, I say breezily. I pause, trying to remember how maid Binay does it. I stick my pointer and middle fingers into the mixture. Determining the proportion of wet to dry to be just right, I cap the cooking vessel and carefully set it on top of the stove. We gently shove a crumpled piece of paper topped of with various twigs and branches into its front opening.

Match, please, I ask in a low voice. As the tiny flame blazes merrily, I  continue confidently, Dondi, tend the pot so it doesn't overflow, will you? And keep the fire going by blowing through this bamboo straw. 

Folding his arms, he argues in a surly tone, Why do I always have to do this?

Well, I reason out, trying to sound self-assured, because today I am Mother, so you'll do as you're told. Next time, you can be Eldest Brother so you can do the cooking. He pouts but concedes.

It's boiling! Dondi announces vivaciously soon after. I simply grunt in response. Let the steam out. And be sure to tuck a pandan leaf among the grains. Then, cover it when the water has evaporated. After a few minutes we uncover the rice pot and take a small taste. We all nod in agreement that it's perfect. Luto na.

Saan yung tuyo? I hurriedly retrieve the dried salted herring from my pocket and dunk it into the curved bottom of the fry pan. Vicky is today's designated Eldest Sister, so she gets to do the frying. The warm, sweet smell of cooking drifts into the air. Then, all is done. 

Kain na! And mind your manners. I give table instructions, jutting my chin up, just like Mum does. And please leave some food for Voltaire! Voltaire is one of six dogs whom Mum always sees to it has enough leftover to eat, maybe because he's my Dadee's favorite. Voltaire grimaces upon hearing his name, but remains nonchalant. He doesn't seem to care for our food, neither for the pesky flies circling around, and glances away.

Vicky admonishes Dondi dramatically, Eat your meat. It will make what lies between your legs to grow large and firm. They're the very words that Uncle Yoyong always says to tease the boys. Dondi looks puzzled and ignores her.

We giggle as we eat, looking at each other, the sort of knowing glance between cousins, and bursting into laughter as we take turns savoring every little bite of our modest meal. Actually, the rice is undercooked. The fish is burnt. It will surely taste better with diced fresh tomatoes and a suka vinegar dip, but we're satisfied.

Rubbing my belly and stretching back with a lazy smile just like Dadee does after each meal, I whisper approvingly, This has been my best meal ever.

True Heart Of Autumn

October Party

O C T O B E R

What a time

to celebrate - 

the year's 

last 

loveliest smile.* 

------------------------------------------------------

      * William Cullen-Bryant

Dances With Miss Weather

October Party

Merrymakers at the party break into spontaneous dance.

Shall we dance

On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?

They begin with a particularly vivacious polka. At the head of line dancers is Miss Weather, traipsing in hop-step-close-step to the lively bohemian dance. She soars and dips at the same instant, seemingly weightless.

She then begins to combine slow steps and quick steps. Slow, slow, quick, quick to a rather fast but very smooth foxtrot. She is light on her feet, her dress flowing around her ankles. She is spinning through the crowd like a brilliant flame. Others join her, swooping around the dance floor in a quick and graceful two-step: hands joined together, first pointed toward the ceiling, than toward the floor.

As the tempo slows down into a graceful waltz, partners cling to each other in the intimacy of an embrace. 

Will you please do me the honor? Quaking Aspen proffers a hand to Crimson Maple. He leads her gently to the dance floor. They glide through as though they exist only in the clinging circle they have made, parting the other dancers like water. 

Presently, the music segues into a raucous latin beat. Everyone begins to rhumba happily, laughing and shaking their bodies. Then, in catchy jitterbug steps, the revelers begin swinging and rock and rolling. 

The quick and energetic boogie-woogie follows. Party celebrants are shimmying. To the next tune, they emulate the Moon Walk, backward, on tiptoe.

Thereafter, some break into a Bollywood routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking from the audience to join them in their gyrations. The music begins to reach its crescendo. People spin around until the floor seems to threaten to come away from their feet.

The sensual and energetic salsa movement becomes a show-stopper next, only to be challenged by singing, guitar-playing, and hand claps that accompany the magical and passionate flamenco.

Then, mambo time. Ooh, let's mambo, Wild Cherry hisses to Golden Pomegranate in a fierce whisper. Excuse us, won't you? The couple astonish fellow dancers with flirtatious, sensual rock and side steps, kicking and flicking their feet, and shaking their hips. 

They scurry off, though, as Dogwood gives a warning. Move away, please. He's leading a conga line around the room, twitching like he's got fleas. 

Crowded onto the dance floor, everyone gyrates, sways, and frolics with abandon into the wee hours of the October sky. Revelers are whisked on the dance floor to be twirled. And promenaded. And dipped. And spun.

One, two, three, and...

One, two, three, and...

Professor Wind's Band

October Party

Miss Weather led the dancing,

Professor Wind the band.

Maestro taps his baton.

The harmony of sounds commences with the beautiful, quiet, and soul-calming puff of air that mimics the comforting slowdown of the year. It has a kind of looseness in it, nothing to steer or slow it down.

Tropical Easterlies blowing with consistent, steady strength floats in with a slow, lyrical movement. They comb gently through the American beautyberry branches, making a long whispering sound, as though trading secrets with the sweetgum tree.

Gentle Gust drifts in from the northeast. Like a sigh, soft morning Whiff rushes up from the housetops, a calming interlude before the excitement of the outer movements.

The subtle voices of time and the gentle Currents blowing over the clean, tame earth slow down the rhythm to a pastoral. Then follows Breeze, warm and dry. It glides by in the calm, cloudless weather with a melody of wide intervals.

As Mountain Breeze slides its cold air from mountain to the valley, the tempo changes into a forceful, syncopated rhythm.

   
Then, Periodic Winds swirl around, wailing like a lost child with irregular, abrupt harmonic changes. In counterpoint, Land, Sea, Mountain and Valley Breezes howl in terraced dynamics.

The winds blow in synchronicity. All themes sound up concurrently into a harmonious combination of elements. The party has begun.

A symphony of sounds, beat, and music enjoins all, Shall we dance?

Leaves By Hundreds

October Party

The leaves by hundreds came -

The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,

And leaves of every name.

The guests, painted leaves and brightly-tinted trees of all kinds, have arrived. The air is alive with chatter and laughter.

Birch, golden as sunshine, is an early standout. Royal crimson Maple, gorgeous in shades of red, orange and yellow, follows soon after.

Wild Cherry, in the loveliest shades of dark red and bronze green, saunters through the raucous crowd. Tagging along is Quaking Aspen which dazzles with its golden leaves, shimmering as they flutter in even the slightest breeze.

Not to be outshone, Fragrant Witch Hazel glows with its yellow leaves and mophead-shaped flowers. 

All eyes are now on Pomegranate's bright golden leaves, arriving hand in hand with Blueberry's variegated leaves of yellow, orange, and wine red. As well, Red-Twig Dogwood's reddish-purple leaves lend a welcome flash of regal, passionate color, lighting the way for an exciting air of romance and festivity.

The gala parade continues. 

Guests have come like moths among the whisperings and the spiked apple cider cocktail, flirting in a sea of fiery red and yellow autumn foliage.

Maestro, music please. Let's kick off the revelry! 

Carpet Of Sunshine

October Party

This series has been inspired by George Cooper's poem, the full text of which will be quoted in the last entry of the October series. For now, only relevant lines will preface the particular piece.
  

October gave a party.

Sunshine spread a carpet, And everything was grand.

The invitation is out. 

As the days of autumn get cooler,

The pleasure of your warm friendship is requested

To a FALL PARTY

Date: The entire month

Place: Wherever October is observed

Preparations are underway. A welcome carpet is being laid. 

Ready, Sunshine?

­­­Behind a misty cover, the eastern horizon is blooming into radiant orange promising what can very well look like a sky with three suns. A golden streak starts to break through thick white cloud, flickering through the grey-green leaves of the lavender bush. 

Thereafter, a heaven-spanning vault of brilliance infuses everything with an incandescence far too bright to look at for more than an instant. 

The doors are now open to welcome guests.

Won't you come?

Tarzan

My Guy

Quoted excerpts are from Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan of the Apes. 

As a matter of opinion I think he's tops,

My opinion is he's the cream of the crop;

No muscle-bound man could take my hand from my guy.

I smile broadly, relishing the sound of his name. Alexander Skarsgard. It sounds like a sigh. He's My Guy. Move over, Michael Fassbender.

Twice during the 36-hour flight back home from Bhutan, I watched The Legend of Tarzan in which he stars. Since then, I've seen the film on a library DVD many times. I'm obsessed.

From a lofty perch, the Earl of Greystoke views the village of thatched huts across the intervening plantation. His straight and perfect figure, muscled as the best of the ancient Roman gladiators, and yet with the soft and sinuous curves of a Greek god, told at a glance the wondrous combination of enormous strength with suppleness and speed.

In his savage, untutored breast, new emotions are stirring. Slaves have been captured and are being carried by a Belgian military train. He groans inwardly.
It has remained for man alone among all creatures to kill senselessly and wantonly for the mere pleasure of inflicting suffering and death, he says in a casual tone that fools no one.

Moreso, a treacherous envoy for King Leopold is scheming to capture and deliver him to an old enemy in exchange for diamonds. I'm not allowing that, Tarzan sneers in resolve.

He steps out from the shadows of the tribal village into lush, luminescent green mountains that stretch out and up for miles after hazy mile. He looks at the ground, eyes downcast, then scrunches his face in consternation. He emotionally remains remote, uninvolved - his penetrating, lucid, slightly-crossed eyes only modestly registering whatever might be on his thoughts.

Then slowly, he grimaces in disgust. Moving stealthily as a panther, he goes naked into the jungle, swinging on a vine, armed only with a jackknife.

Leering openly now, he bristles after a long pause, I am Tarzan of the Apes! His voice booms with anger. He gives a snort and a very indecorous laugh. Through clenched teeth, he says, My Mangani mother is Kala. Akut is my brother. His voice sounds like a string that's been pulled too tight. I never knew my father, my mother was an ape, he continues crisply.

He next triggers a massive stampede of wildebeest through Boma, destroying the town and distracting the soldiers. As primordial fears bubble and hiss in the depths of his opponents' soul, he bellows in a steady, controlled voice a mating call to summon the crocodiles who are stunned into obedience and devours the enemy. 

Tarzan places his foot upon the neck of dead bodies rolling to the ground. He mutters, his mouth settling into a hard line. This is the house of Tarzan, the killer of beasts. Do not harm the things which are Tarzan's. Raising his eyes to the sky, he throws back his fierce young head and voices the wild and terrible cry of his people.

Thus peace reigns once more in this timeless, almost mythical virgin forest. The jungle rolls below - quiet, unmarred, a dense green canopy where Tarzan watches, where only the odd, stray sunbeam penetrates the mulchy forest floor.

No muscle-bound man can take my hand from this guy.

Ooo-wa-ooo-aaooaaooaa-ooo!

Tisoy

My Guy

This piece has been written in a spirit lightly akin to that of John Grogan's Marley and Me. 
Tisoy means mestizo. Kangkong, or water spinach, is a leafy vegetable rich in vitamins and minerals that is usually found in Asian cuisine.

I gave my guy my word of honor to be faithful, and I'm gonna,
You best be believing I won't be deceiving my guy.

I fling a hopeless glance at a pair of blue eyes quizzically peering at me. Are those stilts? I cannot stifle a laugh as I see long, slender paws jutting out of a sausage-shaped body. He looks like a hairless albino. He wiggles and yelps with sunny exuberance as I reach out for him. He seems empty-headed and loopy. You have such sharp teeth for a puppy, I remark, my voice shrill, as he gnaws on my fingers. He carefully inspects my ankles with his nose. 

You're going to be My Guy, I tell him quietly with a fluttering motion of my hand. I'll call you Tisoy. I twitch the corners of my mouth as I officially baptize him with a mock sprinkling of holy water. He seems unimpressed. He yawns and crawls back beneath the table.

I clear my throat and sometimes call him Soyti, the syllables of his name backwards. He responds by opening his eyes in delightful recognition, stretching, and rolling on his back, paws in the air. Not a numbskull, after all.

He's really goofy when it comes to sounds like those from the thundering Marikina bus that plies Fountain Street. I'm sorry, it's just like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, isn't it? I console him with controlled poise as he races around and jumps.

But loony takes on a heightened depth during a thunderstorm over which he has the deepest neurosis. It's not the end of the world, Tisoy, I tell him in a voice as neutral as I can manage without being critical. He continues to run around in circles indicating that he hasn't understood me. It's a Day of Tribulation! he seems to say, his lips tightened in a hard line. With urgency, he goes on to shred into the tiniest pieces any biteable fragment that stands in the way while he awaits the final judgment of the wicked. 

His favorite spot is the narrow canal between the back garden and Aling Cora's house where he goes wild frantically splashing in its murky water. Ay, naku! Look how muddy you are, I exclaim indignantly while washing the caked dirt off his back. He just looks at me with heart-melting eyes that invoke the look of eternal puppyhood.

Tisoy lives to eat. He is the archetype of someone who can push aside the most desolate circumstance by the redeeming smell of food. At mealtime, his face brightens upon seeing his ration of adobo bits mixed with boiled rice and kangkong being doled out.

But maybe feeling that he's not being fed enough, Tisoy snatches every opportunity to snag any edible item dangling from Youngest Brother's hand. He wolfs it down, then pants with a dopey grin, looking dumb as algae. I cross my arms. Maybe, I should have called you Bandido. Bandit! I try to scold him, sounding genuinely horrified. He responds with an anemic nod, then nonchalantly proceeds to lop lustily at the water, sloshing little tidal waves over the side of his sardine bowl, then wipes his mouth on my clothes. I shake my head, Such an unremorseful thief!

After a repast, we pad quietly out of the room, supremely satisfied, and go out into the bright sun. We look at the sky which is like a stage where clouds have formed characters, morphed into different shapes drifting toward each other. I tell him softly, It feels like a faultless day. 

As I scratch his tummy in fondness, I see a brainless, happy smile lifting the corners of his mouth as if he had just lain down on a warm beach after a long winter.

You best be believing that I will be faithful to this guy.

Ruff! 

White Paw

My Guy

I like to think that White Paw is mine, as has been my wont with a few other lovable creatures that have crossed my path.

Nothing you could do could make me untrue to my guy,

Nothing you could buy could make me tell a lie to my guy.

The sun is rising sooner than I want to see it, but there it is, creeping through the blinds of the room. I rush down the patio stairs to unlock and prop up the door of the fenced area underneath. Like a Dark Prince, White Paw emerges.

He's My Guy.

Pawie, as he is fondly called, is a bunny. He has dense, plush and very soft black fur and long pointy ears. Because of his coloration, he can easily disappear in the shadows, but his single white paw never fails to disclose his hideaway corner of the moment. He is the size of a large cat.

At first he peeks out, narrowing his eyes at the bright sunlight, then forges ahead to take in the freshness of the breeze in the eight-by-four open-air enclosure adjacent to his enclosed domicile. Its chicken-wire gate opens up to the back garden. I can swear he purrs very softly, a sound that I always want to listen for because it assures me he's happy and content.

For the most part, I'd say that Pawie has a sweet personality, but there are times when he looks cross particularly when I josh him meekly with a tilt of the head, Getting overweight, aren't we? I find his surly look quite funny.

Out in the open, he roams freely among the just-sprouting pansies, alternating sprints with a happy dance. At times, I can see nothing but a shimmering blur as he runs wildly after scampering leaf beetles. He leaps occasionally, but almost always never flops over on his side, maybe because he's overweight. Shh, I should not have said that out loud.

Then he scoots over to an area where new growth has stubbornly begun to shove its way up through old thatch. He makes a quiet clucking sound as he nibbles on grass wheat and stray dandelion weeds.

A black ball of fur with one white foreleg in view, he later plunks under the cassia shrub as if in enjoyment of the nubs of yellow pods on its branches, rustling about. For a moment, we sit on the ground in silence, taking in the infinite variety of green of the cape honeysuckle hedge. He seems attentive to noises around - the flicker of skinny brown lizards darting across the path, the buzzing drone of cicadas.

Pawie! I startle him, as I spot a thick line of ants marching up and down the overhanging branch of the neighbor's navel orange tree. He scrutinizes me with his characteristic sullen look, turns a floppy ear, then flares his nostrils and twitches his tiny mouth into what looks like a snorty, Wasup?

The ants are stealing the fruit, one ant-bite at a time, I sigh in mock protest.
Not my problem, he seems to indicate with his slowly wiggling nose, as he stretches and yawns. 

What else can I say? I give him a teasing pout, trying to hide a smile. Nothing can make me untrue to this guy.

Kip-kip-kip!