Death On Easter Morning

Today is Easter 2020.

I'm not going to lie.

It feels like Death. 

In a streaming service from our home church, a staunch pastor and organist preside in an empty church where photos of church members had been pasted onto pews where they used to sit. The scent from potted lilies on the altar smells like Death.

On TV, Andrea Bocelli raises his voice to the mother of Jesus, but in vain. Even she couldn't cause a resurrection. The tune of Amazing Grace resonates in a city that looks like a catacomb of Death.

I miss wearing my yellow Swiss-lace dress. I miss the taste of marshmallow Peeps and chocolate-covered eggs. I miss hearing the Hallelujah chorus. I miss hugs from family and friends.

I miss Life.


  

Via Dolorosa

Pathways

I walked today where Jesus walked.

We funneled slowly in companionable silence through Lion’s Gate into the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem. Today, we’d be following the winding half-mile route that Jesus walked on the way to His crucifixion. 

The road known as Via Dolorosa, Latin for 'Sorrowful Way.'

A celebrated place of Christian pilgrimage.

The path was marked by stations of the cross. As we walked, some people moved off the side, like the Red Sea parting for Moses. 

First Station. Jesus is condemned to death.

Everyone seemed collectively to be under a kind of spell. Or maybe so enthralled to be there that they couldn't speak. 

Second Station. Jesus carries His cross.

No soft conversation. Just an ever-building tension and excitement of whatever it was we were about to experience.

Third Station. Jesus falls for the first time.

The street was hushed in reverence. A few whispered quietly and moved slowly through the next stations...

Ninth Station. Jesus falls for the third time.

It seemed that everything had gone quiet around us. No noise came from the busy path. Even the birds seemed to have stopped chirping. There was only the heat. And silence.

The remaining stations were inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The crowd of spectators, stunned silent, were swirling inside like too many cattle forced into a pen...

Eleventh Station. Jesus is nailed to the cross.

I heard a collective intake of breath from the crowd behind me. A muffled groan came from somewhere.

Twelfth Station. Jesus dies on the cross.

Someone uttered a sound that could only be described as lamentation.

Like a death moan...

Fourteenth and Final Station. Jesus is placed in the tomb.

Silence, heavy and thick, filled the room, as if the world had been frozen. No one said much, the mood somber and grim.

We reentered the streets, melting into the crowd just like everyone else, invisible and unnoticed.

Lovers Lane

Pathways

I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday. – Anonymous

Funny, but how different things look when you add a little perspective to the journey. Sometimes you never realize how far you've come until you take a look back.

Like that time in a land far away when as a university freshman I'd pick my way down the campus Sunken Garden on a narrow path that was about one-and-a-half miles long.

The so-called Lovers Lane.

With a pair of color-changing mood earrings bobbing with every skip and a hop, I would traverse my favorite shortcut to my euthenics class.

Can’t be late for Spinster Rafols’ class, I said under my breath.

I had traveled that road over and over and over again.

The air was warm. I caught a faint whiff of cinnamon from the kalingag tree.
The campus, from a story I’ve heard before while having lunch at the Kamia Residence Hall, was located above a fault line. Alas, the Sunken Garden and the main library were slowly sinking two centimeters (roughly .78 inches) every year.

I didn’t care.

From my vantage point, the scenery was great.

I especially loved the kapok trees. Now that summer had started to set in, they were in full bloom, their pods releasing cotton-like balls that looked almost like snow when they fell to the ground. The fires trees were a sight to behold as well, turning the street crimson.

The sky was bright as far as I could see. 

On a far corner of the grassy ground, I spotted a group of coeds hanging out. Someone with a book in hand was sitting under an acacia tree. A few others were cuddling. 

I arrived in a huff. Just in time for the lecture on social graces. Always cross your legs when wearing a skirt. Chew like you have a secret. And what I thought was totally laughable, Ladies don’t eat an ice cream cone while walking on the street.

The clouds had turned pink and golden with the late afternoon sun on my way back on Lovers Lane to the AS Building. I was rushing and huffing and puffing to catch Prof Rao’s Psych 101 class when a sudden startling thought occurred to me, I need to slow down.

And stop.

And breathe.

And savor.

Lovers Lane would be there to cordially invite me each day, each week, and every season of my life.

It wasn't the destination but the journey that mattered. My journey was about to begin. Or had it begun already?

I nodded, blowing out a breath, Buckle up, buttercup. 

And take those mood earrings with you.

Spectral Light

The Springtime Cometh

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart. - 
Hannah Senesh

Daytime might sizzle in Oahu but when the sun goes down, Waikiki gets even hotter - ablaze with flame from tiki torches and neon lights from lounges and bars on Kalakaua Avenue.

But tonight, despite pale stars that have gracefully slid into their places, day is slipping into eternal dusk.

Waikiki has gone dark.

It is in times like this that I call to mind how on the mainland, spring parts the curtain of night with a light offering. 

Not just any kind of light.

Candlelight.

One that flickers romantically from a vintage metal elephant lantern with cutwork flower patterning on its body.

The elephant in Hinduism and Indian culture is a symbol of intellectual and earthy strength. It is a sacred animal and is considered the representation or the living incarnation of Ganesha, the elephant-headed deity riding a mouse.

I love the symbolism. Sensitivity. Wisdom. Loyalty. Reliability and determination.

Perfect.

It is said that somewhere in Africa, the elephant has a secret grave where it goes to lie down and unburden its wrinkled gray body. 

A hollow place of long echoes and tangible silences. 

Of semi-darkness.

But right here, right now, though only on my mind, how far that little candle throws its beams. Like a distant star, it is thowing thin shafts of illumination through the darkness. Spectral like spring's true beauty and goodness. Beautiful and surreal.

I settle into a chair, hopelessly seduced. 

Cocking an ear to the quiet rumbling and purring from an elephant soaring its spirit away.

Whistling the happy tune of my youth.

Attentive to cricket song counterpointing the wind serenade of distant bells.

Ready to refresh my soul with streams of dancing water.

For the springtime cometh.

Song Of Myself

The Springtime Cometh

Just living isn't enough, said the butterfly. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower. - Hans Christian Andersen

I used to like myself.

A.LOT.

But in years past, not so much. I've been riddled with self-doubt and lost my confidence.

Although I won't verbalize it, my recurrent dreams attest to it. In those, I cried because I couldn't find my way home. I'd have the wrong cell phone and couldn't call home for help. Or I'd be at a conference where I couldn't locate the meeting site nor go back to my hotel room.

At other times, I wasn't packed in time for a trip. Or very often, I'd be in a play and couldn't remember my lines.

But thanks to spring, I've resolved to stop feeling small. Just when I thought of adding another retinol product for my wrinkles and not speaking ice cream anymore (as if this were the solution to regaining my self-worth), spring bestows on me a present.

A song of myself.

So I'm pressing, Pause, to hum notes of happy thoughts of me before me.

Like these.

I would have been named Amador (lover of God, my Mum said) had I been a boy. For a baby girl (which I turned out to be), her name choice was Adoracion - the most beautiful name ever, according to her. I was my parents' offering of adoration to God.

I was a carefree tomboy dressed in shorts and a t-shirt in my pre-teen years. (Horrors, my Mum would say.) I never had a doll and didn't want one.

My ambition had been set early. I wanted to be a radio announcer and a TV personality. I actually had the naive audacity to audition for a stint when I was in high school. My other passion was writing. Proud to say that I got a call back from the editor of a local mag and was once invited to write for the prestigious Philippine Collegian.

In my teen years, I was muse of the basketball team and (ahem) darling of several male MYF'ers from some choice churches in the Manila District. How could I not be, with a waistline that easily matched the famed 17-inch measurement of Scarlett O'Hara (give or take a few inches)?

My first job was a whopper. Just turned twenty, I became an English instructor in the university I graduated from. Whenever I went on summer vacation at the poultry farm, my relatives, including the farmhand, referred to me as the scholar from the big city. 

My parents and six brothers (with the exception of First and Youngest Brothers after we had quarreled) adored me. The back gate of our home had an arched adornment that displayed my American nickname.

Enough said. I feel better already.

I'm now certain that I can easily find my way home. No need to pack and no intricate transport needed. The only line I have to know and say is, Home is where the heart is.

But wait - just one more thing.

Today, I'm celebrating.

Because... 

(To be continued)

Wind Serenade

The Springtime Cometh

Some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, 

Still left an echo in the sense. - Ben Jonson

Do all the talk and anxiety over the raging pandemic get you a little down?

Me, too.

My heart gets a little heavy.

My steps get a little slower.

So what can I do to kick away the sadness and gloom?

I keep thinking of spring who delights me with yet another gift to enliven my heart.

A wind serenade.

Light and calm, it emanates from this string of temple bells. It's a Mother's Day gift from First Daughter. 

I hang it on a tipped branch of the lilac tree shading the deck. The chime, inspired by ancient Chinese bells, works in harmony with the wind to create gentle, soothing tones.

There are orange-chested robins arguing in the trees beyond and the muffled hum and chatter of voices in the street but apart from that, the air is quiet and perfectly unspoiled. 

As if the world were holding its breath.

Beholden to the temple bells jingling a tune like some fairy announcement.

The sound is like a whisper.

A serenade of spring.

(To be continued)

Water Dance

The Springtime Cometh

The Springtime Cometh is the title of an E. Y. Harburg poem.

Look within. Within is the fountain of good,

and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig. - Marcus Aurelius

There comes a day when I have to break up with winter.

It’s usually somewhere around the middle of February when the snow days have lost their luster and the gray skies don’t look like they are ever going to cheer up and all the leafless trees look like they are auditioning for a part in an Alfred Hitchcock film.

By March, I'm fuming, Enough already.

That’s when I tell winter he has been a supercute date for the holidays and I really like mistletoe and carols and sleigh rides and he is totally hot in his all-white tux.

But now?

I’m over it.

There’s a new special someone in my life.

On this happy bright day, meet my spring. Let me tell you what he has brought along.

A water dance that can rinse away the troubles of the day.

From a bird bath and fountain right here on our deck. Don't you just love its antiqued verdigris finish? It's a Mother's Day gift from Second Daughter.

Like a penitent sinner in need of sanctification, I touch the splashing reservoir of water. It feels like silk. Smooth and warm bubbling past you. Full of life.

I sit close by on a splintery bench. The sun is bright, and it strikes everything evenly. The water flashes it back so blindingly that I close my eyes and just listen to the water tumbling onto the basin, droplets spilling on the floor. Its steady tinkle is soothing, the sound rhythmic, almost hypnotic.

And I begin to dream of water. And to think that the spirit is a fountain.

It pours out with an inexhaustible spray of ideas, but only as it continues to flow will more and clearer streams of water come.

(To be continued)