Flight 2020

Final Call

                                                                             
Y’all.

Christmas is over.

I didn’t want to mention it, and my heart literally sank a little as I typed those words.

And the saddest part?

There are 362 days until the next one.

This is the time of year that I have a hard time letting go. You know. The warm glow of lights and candles, the red and green dishes and poinsettia-imprinted placemats. But I did put everything away.

So the holiday is coming to an end, but before the year ends, I’m pressing pause for one hot minute. 

Now.

This moment.

This time.

To celebrate you all.

Truly. I cannot even begin to express how you have been my best gift.

As we take flight toward a new year, I'm hoping that you'd continue to tag along and join my rally for a fresh chance to get it right.

For starters, I'm resolving (and hoping you would, too) that all luggage should only contain the best souvenirs from 2019.

Truth. 

This will especially be hard for me being the worrier that I am, but I'm bent on leaving my anxieties and doubts in the rubbish bin.

The complimentary Cocktail of Friendship service that will begin shortly after we reach cruising altitude might help. So, yes, please. And Fanta, horchata, beer, icee or tequila, perhaps, for some. 

As to the in-flight meal, I'd be sure to order only the good stuff: 

Supreme of Health

Gratin of Prosperity

Bowl of Excellent News

Salad of Success

Cake of Happiness

All served with A Side Of Laughter

The duration of the flight will be twelve months. Let's stay buckled up while seated for safety's sake.

That all said, sit back now, relax and enjoy our hop-over to 2020.

Oh yeah, we’re going there now!

Wishing you

an enjoyable trip

and

 a successful year

 ahead!      

Peace

Christmas Haikus

Untitled. Pen drawing by 
Second Granddaughter, 7 years old

a star from above

shines upon sleeping baby

in heavenly PEACE


May your Christmas be filled with 

HOPE

LOVE

JOY

and PEACE!

Joy

Christmas Haikus

night’s slumber is done

heralding a bright new day

as bells of JOY ring

Love

Christmas Haikus

Haiku: Japanese verse form composed in English versions of three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables. It often features an image or a pair of images meant to depict the essence of a specific moment in time.

on its right hand, grace

LOVE comes down one silent night

to lift up my soul

Hope

Christmas Haikus

Remember what is important.

Savor every minute with family and friends.

I’m telling myself this now.

Today.

Before it all slips away and I’m standing in front of crumpled gift wrap and left-over stale cookies and my nativity that has lost a camel and wonky advent candles.

This Christmas, I'm going to take a moment to breathe.

For starters, there is going to be minimal Christmas decor. Just a reindeer knickknack presiding over the dining table, seasonal platter, and neutral sprigs of holly.

Writing will also be minimal. 

This month's blog series will each consist of 17 syllables (not counting the words in this intro).

Not.17.Words.

Not.17.Paragraphs. 

17.Syllables.

Starting now. Who's with me? 

let silence ring in

softly like an angel's voice

a whisper of HOPE

        



   

  

Give Thanks

Thanksgiving Day, 2019

The table is set.

Gourd Centerpiece. Crafted by
Second Granddaughter. 7 years old.

Delicious food awaits: 

     + Butternut squash soup
     + Slow-roasted turkey with pan gravy and
        stuffing
     + Cranberry sauce
     + Sweet creamed corn
     + Pumpkin cheesecake, etc.

... at Cooper's Hawk Winery and Restaurant.

All the flavor.

None of the work.

Thanksgiving.

When the people who are the most thankful are the ones who didn't have to cook.

Need I say more?

Actually, yes.

It's not the minutes spent at the table that put on weight, it's the seconds (LOL). 

Wishing you the gift of faith

 and the blessing of hope this Thanksgiving Day!

Recoleta

Day Of The Dead: Buenos Aires, Argentina

Don't cry for me, Argentina.
The truth is I never left you.

The hill in the lovely neighborhood of Recoleta was alive with the sound of Madonna... er... Eva Perón singing.

Same difference. 

That's American Queen of Pop Madonna rendering a soulful plaint in the film Evita where she played the role of the world-famous and controversial former first lady of Argentina.

Despite the lyrical claim, Madame Perón did leave (because she died) and was buried in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. Covering just under fourteen acres, the cemetery is a mini-village of tombs, tightly-packed and condensed. 

Like a field of deathbeds, stretching many blocks far and wide. 

With over 6,400 grandiose mausoleums resembling Gothic chapels, Greek temples, fairy-tale grottoes, and elegant little houses.

Argentina’s wealthy and powerful do know how to do it in style, even as they rest for eternity.

We went to see Madame Perón's tomb.

Its marble floor had a trapdoor. From there was a compartment containing two coffins. Under that compartment was a second trapdoor. Under that was a second compartment that was so heavily fortified to ensure that no one could disturb her remains.

 Huh? Who's going to bother?

And that was where she lay, in a crypt almost seventeen feet underground.

Whew! 

That was too much even for me who has been known to go overboard on anything. I'd no sooner claw my way out of there quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.

And on this note, the series on death ends.

See you later, alligator! 

Give a hug, ladybug!

Remembering Coco

November 20, 2019

He has left 

clawprints 

on our hearts.

Cities Of The Dead

Day Of The Dead: New Orleans, Louisiana

The wind whined through the cemetery, rounding out the sharp corners of the tombs. We were among the burial plots known as 'Cities of the Dead' at the Cementerio de San Luis (St. Louis Cemetery) in New Orleans.

Where rows and rows of sun-bleached tombs resemble streets.

Where rusty, decorative ironwork, crosses, and statues cast mysterious shadows.

And where the dead are buried above ground. 

Umm... Did you just ask what the deal was about being 'buried above ground?'

I'm glad you did.

And did you just say out loud that this was counter intuitive to the accepted practice of being 'six feet under'?

Good that you said that, too. I love questions. Like questions with more questions and commentaries sprinkled on top. 

Here's the thing.

Because of the extremely high water table in New Orleans, graves become soggy, easily filling with water. Frequent flooding once caused corpses to surface. Yikes! You just can't keep a good, dead person down, can you? LOL.

Early settlers tried placing stones in and on top of funerary boxes to weigh down and keep them underground. Unfortunately, after a rainstorm... Again - pop! they went out of the ground. Can you picture a casket sticking up out of the water or literally floating? Boring holes in the coffin didn't work either.

So, no more shallow plots. 

Above ground vaults are the answer. The dead are tucked away in economical chambers stacked on top of one another.

Or in larger, ornate catacombs with crypts.

Or even in family burial chambers that look like miniature houses, complete with iron fences.

As for me? My choice is none of the above. I'd much rather float through space and time like a speck.

Free.

And alone. 

Undas

Day Of The Dead: Manila, Philippines

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. - George Eliot

It was October 31.

With candles, shears, a bucket, and rags in tow, Mum and I were plowing through the crowd, walking the rest of the way to Cementerio del Norte (North Cemetery) from Bonifacio Avenue.

Our yearly pilgrimage.

We were visiting Lolo Gorio and Lola Maria's gravesite to pull perimeter weeds and get the tombs clean and ready for Undas (All Saints' Day). Celebrated on November 1, it was a day to remember and to pay respect to loved ones who had passed away. 

Truth.

I didn't enjoy yanking weeds. I used to dread it. There were times when I would mumble in secret protest. Until...

Until Mum promised that afterward, she was going to buy me a bag of boiled peanuts. Perhaps a bunch of lanzones? (Aside: I was easy. I'd do anything for food.) 

So from then on, I had looked forward to our visit. 

As I surveyed the scene, I mentally conjured a progress report and this was what it said.

Personality?  B.

Kind of pitiful.

And sad.

The colorful coleus shrub bordering the gravesite was lonely and looked like a teenager who needed a haircut.  

Behavior?  B.

It was a little sassy and I caught it inviting some rotting kalachuchi petals and random cobwebs to a sleepover. And partying with foot-high weeds of rice. The tombs were dirty and brown. They needed help. They needed a makeover. 

Potential?  A+.

The plot really wanted to get its grade up.

And that said, Mum and I joined the other folks around who were already in the midst of cleaning their respective site. We tugged and heaved. And clipped. And scrubbed. And polished.

It was already dark when we finished. As a farewell gesture, we set up and lit candles on each corner of the tombstones making them gleam like blanched, weathered bones.

As we trudged back between graves to the pedestrian lane, my feet crunched and crackled on a carpet of leaves and twigs. Voices of folks reciting novena prayers for the dead faded.

There was only stillness.

And the silence of death. 

Dia De Muertos

Day Of The Dead: Mexico

I’m never really sure about Halloween, death, and cemeteries. That's why for November blogs, I've skipped these topics and acted like we aren’t friends and moved right on to Thanksgiving, pumpkins, and desserts.

But sometimes?

When I feel like a spider web is in my future…

I break out a little orange and black and say, B-O-O!

Let me start by talking about Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead).

I've never experienced the celebration but I have a sparkly Muertos baseball cap, a decorated skull, co-workers from Mexico who would talk to me about it, and I speak a little Spanish. That qualifies me, I suppose?

Instead of being 'day of the dead,' Muertos seems to me more as a three-day party extravaganza. 

The celebration starts at midnight on October 31. On November 1, it is believed that the souls of deceased children come down from heaven and reunite with their families. The souls of departed adults visit on November 2.

Would you believe that they arrange a pillow and blanket for each of these loved ones so they can rest after their journey? 

Sweetly spooky, don't you think?

Families dress up in macabre skeleton outfits and paint their faces white and decorate with mini papel picados (paper cutouts) and prepare flower-strewn and candle-lit altars. And food! - pan de muerto (a slightly sweet bread specifically made for this time) and skull-shaped candy known as calaveritas.

Festivities continue with a graveside picnic through the night. Folks drink tequila or mezcal, play music, and sometimes stay for a graveyard sleepover.

I like the concept. ¡Es hora de fiesta! It's party time!

No mourning.

No sadness.

Just a gala bash where the living celebrate with the dead.

Dead Sea

Baths

Take life with a sea of salt. - Anonymous

For starters, I think that a Q&A is in order.

Get set.

 Ask away.

What is the lowest point on the earth's surface?

Answer: The Dead Sea. At 1,300 feet below sea level.

A geological wonder that's also known as the Salt Sea, it is one of the must-do tourist attractions in the Middle East.

Stretching back to the days of Herod the Great, it is reputedly a health resort with healing properties. 

Is it true that there's so much salt in it, you can float?

I suppose we'll find out. Shall we take a dip?

Answer: Yes, it’s all true. 

The water, crystallized with salt and glowing almost white in the sunlight, buoys you up. No frog kick or treading required. 

Don't even try to swim in it. 

It.Won't.Be.Possible.

It's the sea where you can't sink. 

Around me, the water stretches out to the very edge of the horizon before dropping out of sight where the earth curves away from us.

It feels like time had warped and stood still. Moved backward and then forward.


I lift my face to feel the warm breeze.

The sun on my face is first pleasant, then hot and pulsing.

Feeling tiny, humble, inspired and salty all at once, I inhale deeply and then let out a slow exhale - dreaming of unpathed waters, unforeseen shores.

Remembering Andy

October 20, 2018

My sunshine doesn't come from the skies,

It comes from the love that's in Andy's eyes.

Rotorua Hot Spring

Baths

Half of beauty is attitude, anyway. Or so they say in Us Weekly.

I sucked in my stomach as I sat on the ledge of the hotel's natural thermal pool.

We had just taken a couple of bus rides from Auckland and finally touched down on Rotorua in New Zealand. We had literally descended into a caldera, a volcano's mouth that was the entire town. 

Can you smell the sulfuric aroma? 

It struck me that there was an abundance of hot bathing areas around, from private pools to natural hot springs. Signs were everywhere. Like the overwhelmingly large advertisement on our hotel front. 

I got the impression that in a place like this, all you had to do was to dig deep down anywhere to get to those hot geothermal waters and receive their healing benefit.

I didn't care.

All I was interested in at that moment was the so-called optics...

Of an amazing-looking me. 

I kept thinking, Size 5 is a wonderful place to be. All those times when I thought I looked like I needed to do intermittent fasting... umm... Negative. 

Seriously.

I thought I looked like a supermodel. As long as I hid my tummy behind a strategically-positioned arm.

It was the perfect pose.

My stomach was flat. The 'L' was just silent.

Turkish Bath

Baths

Do you like massages?

Umm... sorry, I don't. But I couldn't pass up a hamam experience.

That was what a Turkish bath was called.  

A water immersion that was a hybrid of a sauna and a Roman bath with exfoliation and massage. 

In the Turkish resort city of Antalya, no less. I figured I'd never pass that way again, so why not?

I wanted to.

Me, please.

Spoiler alert: I had to be completely naked. Yikes! (Aside: Good for me, this happened when the last two of my three-digit weight hadn't jumped up to the teens and gravity hadn't taken that much of a toll yet on my twin hanging appendages.) 

As I sheepishly pushed open the door to the cooling down room, the first thing that hit me was the massive, circular marble room. I was briefly unbalanced and had to take a theatrical step backward. 

But not only that. 

There was a multitude of bare breasts. 

Like naiads from Greek mythology, women of all shapes and sizes were already leisurely dousing their naked body with water from numerous small alcoves around the perimeter of the room. 

Embarrassment crawled all over me like a rash.

Hoping that motionlessness was the first cousin to invisibility, I made myself as still as possible. I tried to concentrate. I felt simultaneously distant from everything around me, and acutely aware of the smallest thing.

Momentarily, a hooded person like an Old Testament prophet led me to a room completely covered in marble featuring a big dome, several basins and an impressive göbektaşı - the central, raised platform above the heating source.

The searing wave of heat and humidity made it hard to catch my breath. 

I ambled towards the marble slab, my feet shuffling like I were heading off to a sacrificial altar. I felt warmth rising in my face.

It was presided over by a sweaty, overweight woman wearing only a loose upper garment that wasn't quite a bra and a white loin cloth. She had big ears and a fat red face, jowls sagging like a dejected bulldog. She did, indeed, appear to have a flair for taking charge.

I sat pale and motionless as a statue in a British museum. She stared at me like she was trying to memorize my body. 

Our eyes locked. 

She took a couple of steps towards me, her hands on her hips, her expression all concerned like a teacher who was about to tell me how disappointed she was with my attitude in class.

Looking away first and gulping, I lay down prone and relinquished control. I let her scrub my body and lather me with a sudsy swab from head to toe.

As I got all slippery and wet, she hammered her fist in rhythm. The words, No pain, no gain flashed through my mind. Probably the reason why most masseurs were persons of few words but many pounds, as Michael Palin had put it nicely.

Surprisingly, her hand touching my arms, back, legs and all of me was so soft and floating she might as well have been a yellow monarch butterfly.

After fifteen or so minutes, her cheerful if distorted smile and air of self-satisfaction told me that I was done.

I received another soapy wash followed by a rinsing session with … cold water. I was out of breath.

I  headed for the showers in the intermediate room. 

Finally, in the relaxation room, I donned a white robe and combed my hair into obedience. An attendant carried over a long-billed brass kettle and poured a graceful arc of apple tea into my cup.

I took a tentative sip in sober solemnity. It washed down my dry throat. Its sweetish-tart taste was like the warmth of home. 

The easy chatter of rosy-cheeked women swelled and dipped gently like a benign sea around me. It was all so absurdly comfortable.

Like an afternoon with nothing to do but be idle.

Pansol

Baths

Life is simple, just add water. - Anonymous

Brrr... it's cold.

Hang in there. Today I’m going to keep us toasty by getting immersed in something warm. 

That’s right.

You and me.

Nothing but steamy baths going on around here, starting with the Pansol hot springs situated at the foot of Mount Makiling.

It was one of our usual haunts.

Actually, I don't remember a lot of details. How we got there, for example, because this thermal bath was all the way to Calamba, Laguna. By bus? Or Uncle Jorge's car? Did I go with my Mum and brothers? Did we pack a lunch? 

I can capture the day only in snatches. 

I just know that we would sometimes go on the weekends. It was all there was to do, really. There were no fairs, no game arcades. Come early morning, we would congregate, saunter around, and off we went.

I remember the outdoor pool - large. The water smelled of sulfur and it was warm.

But the real attraction for me was the one short end of the pool that turned the corner. It bumped against a mounded hill with an arched opening through which we could enter and follow the water.

Inside was a smallish cave.

I remember how I would stare at its gray nothingness. Nothing but a wall of blankness.

Mysterious.

And I would just stand there awhile, the bubbling water just about lapping up my toes, watching the water run past, quick and shallow.

Wondering where it came from.

And where it was going.

The Bird Of Heaven

Feathered Fellas

Birds are the eyes of Heaven. - Suzy Kassem

Today is about a perfect night and spicy-style seafood and the stars.

And the bird of heaven.

But I’m getting ahead of the story. So let's start at the beginning.

The breeze is just strong enough to erase the lingering heat of the day. We're sitting on the open deck of the Koh Lanta restaurant, a hidden gem all the way out, almost at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport. The enclosed porch overhangs a man-made lake, giving the illusion of floating above the water.  

Truly.

Everything is laid out nicely and has beautiful finishes and things that sparkle and shine.

Can you picture it?

Above us, the stars are beginning to emerge, brilliant pinpricks in the velvety sky. The torches lining the deck have been lit, sending a glimmer on the water below. 

Mmm... Can you smell the basil and turmeric in the air? It's the smell of a night of just-extra eating. The restaurant is famous for its seafood which reputedly all comes from the local Samut Prakan port. We're waiting for our order of spicy-style fish, shrimp, crab and pad thai, of course, a Thai favorite.

Are you getting hungry yet?

We're watching the planes departing and arriving from the airport every five minutes until suddenly... 

... suddenly, it shows up. I stare at it, speechless. 

Are you ready? If you've paid attention earlier, you will have guessed correctly.

A black-necked crane! Sorry, I did say, 'bird of heaven,' so you're correct... same difference.

It's the most splendid-looking water fowl I've ever seen. Its body is whitish-grey while its tail, long legs, neck, and head are black. The eyes and bill are yellow. On its head, I can see a small, white patch. A distinct red patch of bare skin adorns its crown. 

A long time ago, the black-necked crane was claimed to be the messenger and harbinger of the highest heaven. It would rise above the clouds into endless space, disappearing from the sight of earthbound mortals.

So I sit there in silence, listening to the sound and movement of wings hovering the water.

Feeling the space, a safe haven to float.

Waiting when perhaps I, with them, would reach for the celestial heights.

To Iris, On Her Birthday

From my pre-blogging days, here’s one that was written with a smile in my heart, September 2011.

You Are The…

Bean in my burrito, cookie dough in my DQ,

Aria in my cantata, lox in my frittata.

Blueberry in my trifle, whipped topping on my waffle, 

Sampaguita of my essential oil, yellow daisy in my garden soil.

Banana in my smoothie, chairman of my committee,

Blue coloring in my slurpee, lemon in my iced tea.

Shoulder when I cry, wings when I fly,

Cure to my aray! - truth behind my lie.

In short, you are the rainbow in my sky,

The IRIS of my eye.

Snowy Egret

Feathered Fellas

Haiku written on drive home from Makapu'u Beach

snowy great egret,

stuns in stark simplicity

against the wetlands.

White Stork

Feathered Fellas

If we Reader’s Digest this entry, it will have this storyline. 

Feathered, long-legged, long-necked, plus-size mates.  

Literally living the high life.

Sticking with it.

And ending with happily-ever-after. Year after year. 

(Total aside: please tell me you’ve always wanted to use Reader’s Digest as a verb, too.)

We were traveling by bus, maybe in Cappadocia or Pamukkale in Turkey (I don't really remember where), when our guide Mele asked the driver to stop the bus. It was completely unplanned. Completely unexpected.  

Up there! she yelled. We peeked out of the bus windows.

Two white storks. 

Both were standing, ignoring us, in a large nest made of sticks about six feet in diameter and ten feet in depth that was precariously seated atop a building tower. 

Seriously.

Did I mention that they were about 95 feet up on a narrow ledge? 

But not to worry.

The high perch afforded safety as well as ease of take-off. If you had a wingspan of six to seven feet, you'd need plenty of space to spread your wings and catch the air before you dropped to the ground.

A flurry blew across as one of the storks (presumably the male), which had sat so still moments before, flew across the sky. As it floated overhead, it turned its eye downward in curiosity. It was circling above - moving in huge, lazy circles. Then, it soared. Its long, red legs dangled. Its wings were splayed wide and majestic directly above us. 

Can you hear the flapping behind the wind?

But it was quiet on the nest.

It will not always be like that, Mele explained, her lips twisting into something like a smile. After all that waiting, all that pacing...

... hatchlings will come out.

The mother and father will feed the young for several weeks after they've learned to fly, then the young are on their own, she continued. They leave the nest after a couple of months to winter in Africa.

Aww... 

Not to fret. That wasn't The End. The same time next year, the storks would come home to mate in Selçuk. It's a channeling of return-to-Capistrano, with an Asian flair. 

Did you just sigh? 

There’s going to be a new chapter. A new beginning at the very top of this same pillar. (Double sigh).

The air was crisp as the bus moved on. 

I couldn't have written the script any better if I tried.