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.

Wherefore Art Thou?

Heart Lore

I'm in Verona, a city in northern Italy’s Veneto region. Looking at the tiny balcony of Casa di Giulietta where Juliet stood while Romeo declared his love, I've been inspired to update the script for Shakespeare's well-known balcony scene such that it will include my annotations and have a happy ending. The original dialogue lines from the play are italicized.

Where'e'er I go, my Soul shall stay with thee:
'Tis but my Shadow that I take away. - Dryden

PROLOGUE

The night begins like a hundred others before it. There is nothing to suggest that anything is about to change. ROMEO feels wonderfully invisible, as he stands in the shadow of tall cypress trees behind which is tucked in an ivy-covered fourteenth century house.

As JULIET enters the balcony, her sweet, vulnerable air of innocence immediately fills the surroundings. It is as if she had lifted the atmosphere from stillness and given it a soul. She stares out onto the inky gloom of the courtyard below, her dark lashes quivering on her cheeks.

ROMEO feels a flicker of disbelieving delight: But wait, what’s that light in the window over there? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. He lets out a long breath. There is a joyful swell in his chest. Look how she leans her hand on her cheek. Oh, I wish I was the glove on that hand so that I could touch that cheek.

JULIET sighs, her voice floating into the surroundings. Oh, my!

ROMEO, feeling faint joy as she speaks, mutters in a voice so low his words seem carried by the breeze that brushes Juliet's upturned face: She speaks. Oh, speak again, bright angel. You are as glorious as an angel tonight.

JULIET, not knowing ROMEO hears her, utters his name repeatedly like a chant, pulling him in. Her voice is a low rumble in his ears: Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, my Romeo? Then her voice drops to a husky murmur. Why do you have to be Romeo? Just swear you love me and I’ll stop being a Capulet.

The words leap from her mouth, or maybe her heart. She inclines her head. Such loveliness, such grace in her gesture. And in it, ROMEO reads both the beginning and the end of every lover's poem, every romantic dream, every fairy tale that has ever been written.

ROMEO mumbles to himself, his eyes crinkling at their corners: Should I listen for more, or should I speak now?

JULIET, still not knowing ROMEO hears her, says softly: It’s only your name that’s my enemy. Oh, be some other name! The thing we call a rose would smell just as sweet if we called it by any other name. She closes her eyes and tries to hold the moment.

ROMEO's thoughts are lurching wildly back and forth. His voice is clipped, as though he wishes to waste no time, as he answers in a whisper that matches hers: I trust your words. Just call me your love, and I will take a new name. From now on I will never be Romeo again. There is nothing to fear, he assures her. Nothing at all.

JULIET feels the slight blush rise in her cheeks: Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?

Without missing a beat, ROMEO replies: I don’t know how to tell you who I am. I hate my name because my name is your enemy.

He steps out onto the courtyard. Seeing him, she holds her gaze for what seems like forever. He smiles and her heart quickens. They look at each other in silence, as if a warm hand had closed around, protecting them.

JULIET finds the words, but in a voice that trembles: Our love, which right now is like a flower bud, may turn out to be a beautiful flower by the next time we meet. I’ll send a messenger to you, and you can pass on a message telling me where and when we’ll be married.

ROMEO's tone is soft and knowing: For if there were no winter, we can never hope for spring. His eyes warm on hers, and wise, he continues: Our spring will come. 

He presses a hand over his heart, glimpsing her look of quiet pleasure: When you love, your soul breathes in. I've never been so sure of anything as I am sure that I have your heart.

She feels his voice like an embrace, an arm of comfort around her shoulder.  

EPILOGUE

The simple sweetness of that captured moment, so potent with promise, makes them feel like they are the only two people in the world, under a thousand twinkling stars.

Enveloped in dreams of eternal love, they look over to the east. The sky has begun its slow transformation from midnight to the limitless blue-gray that precedes dawn and a passionate life ever after.

Exeunt

The Man On The Moon

Heart Lore

Written on a cruise along China's Yangtze River while passing through Wushan, known for its natural scenery including the Goddess Peak and the Three Little Gorges of Daning River

Looking at the Tranquil Emerald Gorge in Wushan

Emerald rain had fallen from Wushan's mountains into the gorge,

Holding in its hands the moon;

I hoped to catch a glimpse of the man on the moon,

But saw only your face on the clearing ripples,

Peering from a neat cleft of my mind.

One Ever After

Heart Lore

In a sea of people, my eyes will always search for you.

Why does love have to be complicated? Penguins have demonstrated that it isn't, or doesn't have to be so.

A prevalent lore says that during the breeding season, the male penguin picks out a mate from groups called rookeries which can include thousands of these waddling sea-birds. I don't know how the feathered suitor can tell the difference. He must have fixed a steady gaze on a certain female penguin and said, blinking, Such a distinctively large head, adorably perched on a short neck.

Or he could have expressed his feelings in a calm, well-bred penguinese gab that sounds like an old car failing to start, Utterly lovely. The upright posture is elegant. Or in quiet admiration of her legs and webbed feet that are set far back on her elongated body, he may have turned to her in wordless appeal.
  
At this warm approval, pleasure must have pulled at the would-be fiancee's beak, but she'll pretend she has not noticed.

After making a choice, the male goes and finds five smooth stones and, one by one, lays them at her feet - perhaps, like a nervous first-timer in a singles bar, tapping his flippers against his streamlined body. Although penguins don't sweat, he must have felt a bead forming on his plumes. 

The would-be fiancee must have forgotten to breathe when this happens. She could have moved casually away, with no visage of eagerness and gaws, Hmmm, noncommitally, but with a sweet laugh. It's all she can do, not to jump up and dash toward his tuxedoed handsomeness.

At that moment, I can imagine that they will fall into rapt quietude like onlookers at a seance awaiting the appearance of some divine spectre. The female tries to honk, but she finds there is no sound when she opens her beak. Then, after a suitable period of silence, a glance between them will convey their mutual satisfaction. Beguiling him with a smile, she gaks, I accept, in as ladylike a tone as she can manage.

The backward-facing fleshy spines that line the inside of the suitor's mouth are parched, but he manages to squawk an enthusiastic response. Great! 

The male will angle his head toward his mate after which they'll toboggan on their bellies happily, using their flippers and feet to slide their bodies forward along the ice. 

Time will loop in on itself from this day forward, when they first meet and fall in love, and life will be measured out in One Ever After.

Sag-In: Legend Of The Banana

Heart Lore

My bedtime stories didn't come from books, but from tales told by Lil' Boy. I miss their innocence. Their charm. Here is one that I love and remember.

On me your voice falls, as they say love should, 

like an enormous, 'Yes.' - Philip Larkin

When the world was still new, spirits and ghosts roamed everywhere, Dadee starts, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes get big. With riveted attention, I am hanging on his every word. I don't have the breath to say anything.

A brave and beautiful young girl named Raya would always search for these spirits, he says in a crisp voice. One day, she heard someone call her name, 'Raya!' When she looked up, she saw a handsome young man.

My mouth drops open. Dadee's voice lowers into a whisper. His name was Sag-in. He confessed that he had fallen in love with Raya.

What happens next? I ask with unusual patience. They got married and had a child! Dadee answers with a smile in his voice. And they lived happily ever after, I applaud with a grin.

A gesture of Dadee's hand negates the thought, No. He gives an uneasy laugh. But Sag-in knew that his time on earth was short-lived and that he had to return to the spirit world soon. I watch Dadee make a shrugging gesture with his hands. Ohh, I sigh, my heart twisting in a braid of disappointment and sorrow. My smile stiffens and dissolves.

But he was going to leave a part of him behind, he says consolingly. Raya saw a bleeding heart on the ground. My heart must have missed a beat. I'm scared stiff.

Dadee continues with a straight face. She planted it and took care of it until one day, long green leaves sprouted from the grave. Soon, the tree bore a fruit that is shaped like a heart. Raya lovingly caressed it believing that this could be Sag-in's heart until it slowly opened and long golden fruits sprouted from it.

I squint in an effort to understand. My eyebrows bunched in a scowl, I ask raising my voice, So that's where we get the banana? From Sag-in's heart? 

Dadee simply continues in a creaky voice. She peeled and bit the fruit and heard Sag-in's voice telling her, 'Yes, Raya, it is my heart. Take care of this plant. Its trunk and leaves will give you shelter and clothing. The heart and fruit will be your food. And when you sleep at night, I will stand and watch by your window. I will stay by your side forever.' 

Dadee's voice trails off into a mumble as the night outside, vast and menacing, clamors at our windows and seeps through the cracks of the house. 

By the story's end, I have drifted into sleep and abandoned myself to my dreams.