by Analyn Revilla

Today, I stand on soil that I stood upon as a nine-year old, more than 50 years ago.  That was my age when I left the Philippines to immigrate to Canada with my family.   I have  reconnected with the mothership after a very long absence.  What have I got to report? or is it the other way around?  What am I to be informed of OR transformed into?

After 14 hours of a direct flight from LAX to Taipei, followed by another 2 from Taipei to Ninoy Aquino International Airport, I was a cocktail of fatigue, anxiety and curiousity.  I cleared customs and immigration easily, then I walked through the parted sliding doors into the zone.  This zone is beyond order, though it’s not exactly chaos either.  Chaos is a state of mind.  I began to see this land through a different set of lenses.  I am no longer a child, but an adult that has weathered some of life’s experiences.  Though I had perspective, I chose to let go, and allowed myself to be immersed in this water, a baptism into a new beginning.

I saw the faces and I was reminded of the haiku by Ezra Pound, “In a Station of the Metro”.  

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

I settled into my new bubble with little resistance. It helped that I anchored myself into a routine of going to daily mass, exercise, journaling and practicing guitar.  No matter how busy the day or slow the day unfolded, I made time to do these activities:  even if only 5 minutes of practicing scales, or 5 or 10 sun salutations, or a couple of lines in the journal, but definitely, I made time for the rosary.  

Foremost in my mind was the “goal”.  I travelled somewhere between 7416 and 7833 miles from LA to Manila to see my Mom. “To see my Mom” is loaded with meaning.  The goal is not only to see her, but to be with her.  I came to spend time with her, because she turned 95 years old very recently.  I wanted to make the time special and meaningful, but would I be forcing these expectations rather than letting it go as it’s intended to be?  Do we repeat old destructive patterns, or can we allow the weathered years of living mellow-out the cemented resentments and failed hope and expectations?  Can we just be and stop doing?

The efficient flow of traffic in Manila is hard to describe, because to do so would be to lock it into form. It is not a form, but a fluid choreography of intricate dance steps of rubber on pavement with the cars, trucks of all sizes, buses of all kinds, two-wheeled and three-wheeled motorized vehicles, four-pawed cats and dogs, bipedal young & old, professionals and street hawkers, lovers and widows.  They all share the streets and side-walks without collision and very little aggressive horn-blowing.  They are just being and not doing, because to do would break the flow.  They float along in the river, going for the ride to wherever their destination and destiny may be.  I was in awe and am in-love with the Filipinos.  Their silent talk of intentions with their eyes and  gentle sing-songy intonations of call and response, always delivered with genuine kindness.

Whenever I step into the retreat of the mothership, my Mom’s condo and the womb of her bounty, she is waiting and offers me food.  Food is one of the currencies of her love.  Sometimes, the currency is a mild criticism, especially when she has longed for my safe return from my escapades of exploration.  These explorations have been the open markets, feeding homeless dogs, shopping in the air-conditioned malls with its familiar offerings, also found in the West, but with the Asian flair and flavor.    

How have I been transformed in the midst of this visit?  It’s a re-awakening of what’s always been inside of me.  The renewal of my baptism in the river of the milk and honey that my lips suckled upon as a young babe in my mother’s arms.