On The Road To Emmaus

Coda: Walk Softly

Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis. - Paula Hawkins

We're on our way, about seven miles from Jerusalem, to a village called Emmaus, the site of one of the most touching of Christ's resurrection appearances. The warmth of the sun holds me up. A desert lark roosting on the black mulberry seems to chide me for being pensive. I'm as downcast as the two disciples traveling across the beaten, worn-out path.

So, is this truly The Road? I ask myself. I've learned as much that historians have been unable to identify the site with certainty.

We walk softly a short distance on the sandy road. I keep waiting for an act of God, perhaps a flash of lightning, after which a man will join us, the resurrected Jesus, but we will not recognize Him. He will ask us, What is this conversation that you are holding with each other as you walk? 

I'll proceed to tell the stranger of Jesus’ crucifixion and the report of His empty tomb, to which he will respond, How foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! 

That's when our Palestinian guide stops to point, Sham. There!

I see a rock. Everyone comes to a stop on the path and stands in unnatural silence. I've wondered if they were all holding their breath, as I am doing. Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace. This is where Jesus will take us through the writings of Moses and the prophets, explaining from scripture the things concerning Himself. Our eyes of faith will open and we'll recognize Him. 

I stay as still as a statue, closing my eyes to a squint. Aren't our hearts burning within us while He talks? I cannot bear to disturb the sensation of peace and completeness that has enveloped me. I am comforted. I am gentled. 

It feels like nothing and everything. The sky is ablaze in colors of red. It is bright. I can smell hope. The future with its infinite promise looms like the first Easter morning. 

It is true. The Lord has risen.

Long Time Passing

Walk Softly

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?

Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago? - Song Lyrics 

The sun is disappearing behind the roof of the string of houses in the city. I'm back home after a summer vacation at the farm. It is quiet. Even the wind has stopped its teasing gust.  

As the remaining rays of light retreat from the scene, I recall my endless, golden days of play.

We flew through the door like sun rays to traipse onto pilapil footpaths criss-crossing the paddies and the world would, for a heartbeat, seem perfect. We raced barefoot behind the bamboo grove, huffing at a scurrying iridescent beetle. We ate green mangoes, sucked on impossibly seductive guavas bursting in little explosions of flavor in our mouth. We taunted the grumpy water buffalo slouched in the same position as the previous day under the sampaloc tree. 

I don't know what to make of the wave of nostalgia that has overcome me. I long for the wide, open plains, the swaying talahib grasses and ripening grain of summer. I yearn for the guttural call of wild pigeons, the wind off the rice fields smelling of nothing but earth. I miss teasing the bashful makahiya. I miss the smell of flowers in Aling Pining's garden. I miss being beholden to the nuno. I miss my dreams, even if they are only of quiet darkness.

Evening has set in, a welcome pause when everything hangs suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. I can imagine the moon shining over Bashful Lane. It sparkles on Old Man's Mound and is blessing the four o'clock flowers, now dozing, their black seeds secure. 

My head is heavy; my eyelids, too, so I lie down on the pillow and close my eyes. Sleep comes at me like an inky wave. I resist it for a moment, then let it draw me under.

 I miss myself.

By Old Man's Mound

Walk Softly

At the end of the day, your feet should be dirty,

your hair messy, and your eyes sparkling. - Shanti

We're headed toward the rivulet in search of the fiercest eight-legged, poison-fanged gagamba spiders for the afternoon's tournament fight. Come on! Cousin Emy says brightly. 

The path by the bamboo grove is guarded by speaking owls. Don't you get distracted by them, he warns, staring straight ahead. The loam earth beneath my feet is rich, almost quivering with life. We're taking advantage of the last of the sunshine before getting called in for dinner. 

Nuno! Cousin Timan says cautiously. In local mythology, nuno is an old, dwarf-like man who is believed to live in an anthill mound. Because he is easily angered and will do harm to those who disturb his habitation, children are warned to ask permission before passing by. 

We walk softly. Gravely and with considerable respect to the invisible keeper of the small hill, we recite the requisite words, Tabi tabi po. Excuse us, please. After a short pause, as though hearing a response, we express our gratitude, Salamat po!

We scurry on to the tall reed grasses by the woody thicket where we capture our prized critters. 

Let's go back! I rally without hesitation. We quickly pass by Old Man's Mound, remembering to ask for safe passage once more.

A clear sky has given us a final orgy of play. Although my spider lost, I still have managed the widest grin with the confidence of a commander who has lost the day's battle but fully expects a victory the next time around.

Today has been good, today is fun, tomorrow is another one. 

On The Four O'Clock Patch

Walk Softly

There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place 
where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning
 more fragrant than ever again. - Elizabeth Lawrence

Is it four o'clock yet? I narrow my eyes as I whisper in Cousin Susan's ears.

Where are you going? Maid Pining says gruffly. My accomplice in the present escapade and I exchange glances. Out to play, we say matter-of-factly.

Walk softly. Mind my a las cuarto bush! She looks irritable, her tone clearly indicating she doesn't intend to elaborate. But she has guessed correctly. We continue with unflagging vigor toward the flower patch.

The four o'clock, or a las cuarto plant, as it is called in the vernacular, blooms according to changes in light and temperature, usually between four and eight pm, or a bit earlier on cloudy afternoons. We're bent on catching its seeds at the appointed time for our pretend beans for cooking. 

Hoy! Leave my flowers alone. Disapproval draws together her slanted brows. Of course, we don't heed her plea. She's too busy anyway to check on us.

We expertly traverse a line of small-leafed weeds, their tiny yellow flowers peeping through. Red gumamela and carnations are showing their heads, nestled in beside the wild-growing primrose. Bright-orange bird of paradise stalks proudly flutter against the wood fence. Pipit birds keep dipping in and out of a corn husk feeder hung from a mango tree branch. A flash of red, then gold. The flutter of wings, the distant sound of coos. Every part of the garden seems to have a sturdiness about it, even with its quiet grace.

We catch a whiff of the fragrant four o'clock, both lemony and sweet. I can see an abundant spray of trumpet-shaped gold and red buds opening in the shade of the papaya tree. Gingerly, we pluck their bulgy black seeds. Beside me, a frog belches suddenly, absurdly. We turn and go back across the way we have come.

Hala! Did you trample my flower bed again? Aling Pining continues to probe, looking us up and down suspiciously. No, we lie, as always. 

The garden has been the loyal keeper of our secret. It has the stillness of a tableau, the golden glow of nostalgia. It whispers, never shouts.

It leads us down the stretch of budding shrubs where everything is seemingly seen, yet hidden. 

Along Bashful Lane

Walk Softly

My heart is already warming as my mind identifies the memory of those perfectly-intact images of my summer vacation days at the farm which are featured in this series. Walk Softly is an inscription at the entrance of Acadia National Park in Maine. 

Of all the paths you take in life,

make sure of few of them are dirt. - Anonymous

There is always a moment in the morning, between the silence of the night before and the noise of the day to come, when it seems that time stops for a beat, when all the world is motionless, expectant. 

Then, Kokorokok! Tandang rooster rouses me up. It is still dark outside. I hear the rhythmic sound of a broom being swept over dry earth. Tia Chuling is awake early, as always. Get some eggs from the coop, will you, mi 'ja? Auntie asks before I can say anything. I rub the sleep from my eyes.  

Lazily, I amble down the short walk toward the chicken coop. Along the way, I teasingly kick the makahiya in greeting, Good morning, sleepy head! Makahiya, also called 'touch-me-not' or 'shy plant,' is a weed whose leaves shrink and close when they get stimulated by touching, warming, blowing, or shaking. I giggle as its tiny leaves fold inward and droop. Shy again today? I stoop to blow on a cluster under the tamarind tree. Its leaflets close. It's just me! I'll try to walk softly.

My eyes sparkle with good humor. Knowing that they will re-open a few seconds later, I walk on a little bit, stop, then look back. Aha! so you're not bashful anymore. 

I am determined to josh the entire length of Bashful Lane, but I presently get distracted by the pearly-white shell of newly-laid eggs peeking from a small pile of hay in the coop. Akin na yan. Give me that. I reach out to claim some choice ones, and skip on back, taking care that they're secure in the pleat of my hiked skirt.

I move lightly along the creeping touch-me-not, its leaflets shrinking as I step through, but quickly opening up again after I've passed them. 

Auntie's torta egg omelet is delicious, but I can't wait to finish and play on Bashful Lane again. On days such as this one, it's hard to imagine that anything can be wrong on the farm.