Bridge Over Troubled Water

Bridges

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down. 

- Lyrics from song by American folk duo Simon and Garfunkel

Friendship.

Empathy.

Love that can build bridges where there are none.

These come to mind every time I listen to the haunting lyrics of Bridge Over Troubled Water.

It makes me remember those times when I had felt small, but was assured that my darkest night was the bridge to the brightest tomorrow.

That there was always a bridge for finding lights in life.

That there had been an opening into the quiet beneath the chaos where I found calmness I did not think possible.

That I just needed to continue in the faith.

Maintain my peace in the midst of my storm.

 

Red Hashi Bridge

Bridges

A bridge is a meeting place... a possibility, a metaphor. - Jeanette Winterson

Pen pals are people who regularly write to each other, particularly via postal mail. They are usually strangers whose relationship is based primarily, or even solely, on their exchange of letters.

On my third year in high school, I had a pen pal, a Japanese girl whose name I can't recall, unfortunately. She was on her last year of Tyugakko (junior high). We were both fourteen years old.

Of course, I was thrilled.

After the first exchange of letters, we were soon also sending small gifts - dried, pressed petals of our respective national flowers, the sampaguita and cherry blossom. After that, we traded fans: a woven abaniko from me for a Japanese paper fan.

Internet pic only

But what I treasured most from among the trinket gifts my friend had sent was a postcard.

It was simple.

Minimalist. 

It was that of a hill garden dominated by a red hashi bridge arched over a shallow stream.

I had imagined being in her world, the colorful crossover connecting the bank of my river to her river across time and space.

I thought, I'd like to be there. Pass over the stream and pluck pink sakura blossoms off the tree.

Some day. 

 

Wooden Bridge By The Canal

Bridges 

Bridges are happy, because they do not judge those who come to them. – Mehmet Murat ildan

Have you ever crossed a wooden plank bridge that you fear will collapse, but you need to cross? 

I have. Many times before.

On Sunday afternoons, we went on MYF visitations of church members who lived on the other side of the canal on Arevalo Street. To do this, we had to cross toward Domingo Santiago along a rickety overpass.

The structure didn't look very strong nor well-made.

It seemed like something that would likely break or collapse any minute.

Did that intimidate me?

No way.

I'd always thought traversing the dilapidated construction was fun.

It was like stepping gingerly across a balance beam. Or walking across a fallen log with hands held out to either side. I'd try to keep my body perfectly in line, fearing the slightest loss of balance could send me tumbling.  

The missing random planks were a challenge. I'd wobble as I went, jumping to safety from beam to beam. 

I had no idea at the time that such action could have been either intimate, even poetic, or tragic.

I just knew that crossing between the gaps was play. 

Because they were there.

Let Me Be Your Umbrella

Umbrellas 

Did you know there is such a day as National Umbrella Day? It's celebrated in the US each year on February 10.

Why?

I'm not really sure. Perhaps, it's a way to honor one of the world's most convenient inventions.

The umbrella keeps us dry from rain and protects us from the heat of the sun. It can be a fashion accessory. It's a religious symbol in some cultures. Representing the dome of the sky, it's a protective shadow on earth. When carried above a person, it indicates respectability.

Plus, it provides inspiration when you need to get through days when the sky is grey, and everything is… wet.

Consider this.

The mind is like an umbrella. It's most useful when open.

 

When times are tough, friends and family are your umbrella. 

When others try to rain on your dreams, let it be your shelter and comfort.

Take refuge under that canopy and dream on.

First Grandchildren share a golf umbrella, 3 and 5 years old, resp. Honolulu, HI: November 2015

And if you’re feeling a little bit low,

If you’re feeling under the weather,

If your sky is darkening with rain clouds...

... Let me be your umbrella. 

Fashionably Nerdy Me.

Alum Creek Lake, Delaware, Ohio: 2020 

Rain Walking

Umbrellas

I love rain. It's my favorite weather.

Rain is the sky descending to earth.

It makes me think of grace. 

Someone's smile.

A presence beside me as very light rain, almost mist-like, falls quite lowly and gently. 

And it all comes back again. 

A voice meeting mine. 

Someone who makes a tiny world with just him and me, his whisper and my trust.

A couple holding hands.

Walking under an umbrella in the rain. 

Pennies From Heaven

Umbrellas

... Every time it rains, it rains

Pennies from Heaven

Don't you know each cloud contains

Pennies from Heaven?

Are you familiar with the song Pennies from Heaven?

It's an American popular tune introduced by Bing Crosby in the 1936 film of the same name.

I heard it a long time ago when I was young and naive. And I believed it.

I would look at each cloud, knowing that behind its shadows were bright, shiny pennies just waiting to shower upon my spirit and water my soul.

So every time it rained, I'd put my umbrella up, up, upside down.

I was hopeful that fortune would soon be falling all over town.

Have I ever caught any riches yet?

No. Not yet.

Just paltry stuff.

Like the smell of rain and its secrets. 

A feeling of peace that washes over me from the wide, open sky.

The promise of sun after the rain.

Pink Umbrella

Umbrellas

I love umbrellas. 

Like no other.

Maybe because I associate them with the jubilant years of my early schooldays. 

Each year, besides the usual Mongol pencil, box of Crayola, paste, and ruled paper all stashed in a brand-new bag, I also had an umbrella.

Mum wanted me to preserve my fair-skin looks so she had me use the umbrella on sunny days. And, of course, she didn't want me to get even a speck of rain on me on those rainy days. Thus, the ubiquitous umbrella. 

Weird, but that was how it was.

For sure, I looked forward to what my umbrella would look like. Perhaps, light green with white stripes for a change? But Mum always chose a pink one with flowers for me, a joyous splash of color on those gray, rainy days when I walked on Fountain Street toward Geronimo. 

I would curl my hands around its curved handle, thinking, The wind is trying to make it fly.

To this day, each time I hold one in my hand, I cannot help but grin.

The rhythm of rain upon the umbrella reminds me of younger days when I would be on the street, wooden clogs splashing the puddles. 

When it made me feel as if I were rising high regardless of the weather, destined to rise above and watch the clouds below.