A dog and the berries - a dream

I woke up this dawn from a dream.

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It was night. There was a house, a wooden house. Beside the house was a tree. I was standing outside the house near the tree. And the lot was barely clean and squarely fenced with bamboo sticks. That was the first fence. Outside the fence was yet another fence. And in-between both fences was yet another lot.

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Thus, the first fence was in the middle of the second fence. Within the first fence were a house, a tree, a goat, a dog, and myself. I was standing and looking at the dog sorting out the berries under the tree. Those were tree-ripened fruits that fell by itself on the ground.

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Suddenly, the goat ran and went out of the open gate of the first fence - then, out of the second fence. It alarmed me. "How can I get it back?" - was my thought. But I was looking again to the dog busy sorting out the berries.

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What does this dream mean? But something is playing within my heart. Does the goat signify the month of June that is about to leave? And the dog, the month that is about to come? And the berries, the blessings? To sum it up, breakthroughs are coming to me in July?

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Lord Jesus, I have waited for too long. Let this be it! I am thanking You now.

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Calming scent of a mother

I grieved most when my mother died. It was inevitable - God knew! So, He let the path of prophet Don and mine to cross a year before He took my mother away from me. That is, to lessen the impact of her death. Shortly before the year she would pass away, Don forewarned me already of a death of "someone very close" to me. Don never said it blankly. He smelled flowers! It could mean a wedding (!), he said, or a hospital (!!) - or a funeral (!!!). I began to dread.

How close was I to my mother?

Let me tell you a bit of my childhood. This story was related by my mother and my aunt who happened to be our nanny then. I can even remember it. I mean, the crying I did and the smell of my mother. I would cry profusely and uninterruptedly every time my mother was away (say, in company with my father for business trips in the provinces.) Father managed a family-owned shoe company for provinces in the South. Aunt would give me my mother's used house clothes and pillow to sniff. That, she did to pacify my little soul and put me to sleep. How fragrant and calming her smell was! I was at peace.

Why was I so close to Mama?

I was breastfed until I was weaned. Breastfeeding, truly, gives a mother and a child a strong soul connection. I read it somewhere that babies grow healthy once breastfed by mothers. But I am sickly. Family curse, again, determines one's future - unless curse is broken. So, when my mother died, I cried to the point I thought I would die. It was a delayed reaction. My body was trembling - every bit of my cell! I sat helplessly on the floor. I was calling out "Mama" in the wake in front of the coffin. "Only she could understand me!" - was my lamentation. "She will no longer come back!" - was the thought of my heart.

Was it about six years ago?

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Time has passed. And my grieving came to pass. I burned the CD and the VHS videos of the funeral. My sister complained. "Why keep those things?" I said. "Mama is no longer coming back! It is us who will be going to her someday."
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A deaf-mute on the seawall

It's raining. I can't go out. O, the sun is coming out! But it's still raining. I lost my umbrella at the internet some nights back. While waiting for the let-up, let me write about a deaf-mute I also met in the seawall. The other night, while walking home, just before I met the kid on the street, I met Amang [vernacular for "deaf-mute"]. His nickname, actually, is Dodong. I also wrote an entry about him in my diary of January 19 this year. It goes this way...

The sun is very angry, and I am here at the seawall. Who likes to walk under the heat of the sun for home? I am also waiting for the hour to fetch something for my sister. I have nowhere to else to go except here. I love it here. An hour has passed. The makeshift eatery serves as my waiting shed. An hour yet to go. Very happy to see "Amang" coming to me. He is a deaf-mute teen. I have compassion for him, and I love it to know that he likes me, too. We had "conversations." I tried to "listen" though I hardly understood him. I did this to let him feel he is loved despite his situation. I gave him a five-peso coin. He left to get some worms for fishing. I gave him P20 before, and it was the first time I gave him money. How happy he was! More happy than I expected! He bragged about it to his neighbors with all the hand signals. He's coming back! With the worms! He left again for home. He called my attention after a step or two and signaled he had to go. It is a good feeling!

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A girl on the seawall

The other night, while walking home from the market, I met a kid on the street and I remember she was that girl I met in the seawall last January. I am irritatedly amused by her persistence and insistence in asking for coins. I told her the other night to give her next time, for what was left with me was enough for the internet. And I went on walking. I had walked almost a block and I found out she was still following me for coins! I just walked on. I had a diary entry about her of January 17 this year. It says and I quote:

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"Here at the seawall. I am sitting on a long table with my feet resting on a bench connected to it. A tent is still in place to shield me from drizzles. This is a makeshift eatery for cockfighters. A stone's throw away is a cockpit temporarily built for a weeklong feast celebration. It was the feast of the Holy Infant, patron of the Seawall, and it ended yesterday. I am facing the sea and the islands. My feeling is that I am sitting on a bleacher of an amphitheatre, facing a great stage: the sea and the islands. It is also like I am on a great football arena. What if the government would construct rows of benches here? Say, of five levels for sea-watchers? Just made of bamboo! I am unsure if it would be done. Most people are needy here. Their needs are first and foremost. While writing this entry, a girl of five kept pestering me for five pesos. 'I only have a peso,' I told her. But she insisted on Php5. 'What for?' I asked. 'For biscuits,' she replied. I ignored her because she would not accept my peso. She kept asking, this time reducing the amount by a peso. 'P4!' 'P3!' 'P2!' Until... 'Okay, just a peso, 'Kol!' (''Kol' is short for 'uncle,' the name the children here are fond of calling those older than them.) But I was already annoyed by her way of asking - prodding and somehow pushing my side with her hands. To think that I am writing this entry through my cellphone in which keypads are very hard to press. I looked at her, and I saw her eyes already misty. I immediately took the coin from my pocket and gave it to her. For I remember a proverb. 'My son, do not deny the poor his food and do not make the man who looks at you with pleading eyes wait.'" Sirach 4:1.

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End of entry.

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I should have given the girl a coin or two out from my money reserved for the internet the other night. I spent my money without having served the purpose. I had difficulty getting into blogger.com. I had been into this problem for nights. I stopped going to the internet cafes in that area. I had my internet last night in the market. It was smooth.

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Cooking the old way

I am cooking rice by charcoal right now. I don't know but cooking this way gives me a sense of meditation. I feel it's a prayer by itself. I use rice cooker only when I am in a hurry. My landlady complained of increased electric bill lately. I decided to cook by charcoal, lest she increase my room rental - again. A Php100 has been added to my rental fee of Php800 since three months ago. I am about a year and a half living in the room. I like it here because I am alone. She works in the province and comes home only on weekends. It's unlike in the boardinghouse where I had to deal with a lot of renters living with me in the same house. There's a grassy lot with some trees beside and back of my rented room. And the tweets of my feathered friends flying in the area are welcome to my ears. (I wrote something about a bird last year. It's a poem I titled Songbird.) And the dog back of the kitchen next door is slowly becoming a friend. O, my rice, I think, it's done!

In the eyes of a lily

Once there was a lily that opened its bud for the first time under the heat of a noon-day sun. It happened in an inland pond, a lake in the heart of a city in the Philippines. And I was born on that day. As soon as it opened its petals, the lily-blossom saw a grove of old trees standing mid of the lake. "There's something on the trees!" - said the lily. It was feeling something, Someone, the Presence of the One that created the lily: His Feet resting on top of the trees. It saw the peak of Mount Apo rising in the west. It saw the hills looking down on it. It peeped through the hills and saw the plains where stood buildings, houses, and structures - and where lived most people: the east. Farther off, it saw the Gulf and the Island City. "What is this place, an Eden?" asked the lily of the place of its beginning. It looked up again to the great mountain, partly hidden by its jealous wife Mount Talomo. "Apo is meant for her alone. Who can separate the two? They stand together forever!" said the lily sympathetically. [Unless one has the faith to move and plant Talomo into the Gulf!] It, then, panned its eyes to the right and saw the sons and daughters of Apo and Talomo: the mountain ranges of the city standing left of them - and hugging. It had the chance to go up the mountains and saw the city as a great amphitheatre looking down the arena in the east. It had the chance to go down the plains and saw the city as a great cathedral: the peak, the altar. Or a wide concert arena: the peak, the stage. It had the chance to climb up the hills and saw the city as a huge cinema: the hills, the balcony - the mountains or the plains, the big screen. But the city of my beginning has gradually lost its innocence over the years. It has lost its paradise, its Eden. 
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"There's still hope!" said the lily.
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"Humility is our last hope."
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"Humility is accepting the truth that we are proud."
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"Humility is simply being true to God and to ourselves."
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A host on the stone

I had an afternoon walk yesterday for Sunday Mass - and, while walking, I noticed a stone on a pavement. It's different. It's round but flat. I picked it up, slid in my pocket, and cleansed it at home. You know what? I use it as a body scrubber when I take a bath. This is a provincial bathing method, especially, by those of the mountains. A natural experience.

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I remember - by the way - a dream I had last year (?). I dreamed of a stone larger than the usual we see on the road. It was lying on a dry ground. It was a block stone, almost a square - and the top was flat. And on top laid a round, white wafer, a Sacred Host! I was standing. And, as soon as I saw the Host, I knelt down, hands folded, and head bowed to the ground - in worship. And as I bowed, my folded hands bent sideways left to the point of impossibility, for my finger bones never broke itself in the process!

A man on wheelchair

I feel like I have won something big tonight! Happiest man, I think, I am. I was able to help push somebody home - I mean, he was on wheelchair and too weak to steer the wheels himself. I was on my way to the seawall to while away the time when I chanced upon him. He was asking, but no passers-by would help him out. My turn came, and I gladly pushed him home. I never cared when faces of the neighborhood turned sour seeing me pushing the wheelchair. It led me to think - Is this man a problem, a scum in that place? Whatever! I must help somebody needing help regardless of who he is. This is serving God, I told myself. When we reached his home, he never thanked me. I never cared. What matters most to me is: I am able to help and I am happy. I was able to push Lord Jesus home.

I met him before on the street. He was alone and wounded. His forehead was blood-tainted, swollen. Wheelchair was parked. He was resting. I thought, those near him were his companions. I merely passed by - but my heart was restless. I went back, I asked what happened. I fell from my wheelchair while crossing the street, he told me. He is a diabetic - with his right lower leg amputated. I wanted to help him - but I had no money. He said, I am OK. I am just resting from a fall. I rubbed his shoulder with my hand, and said I have to go. He thanked me. I could only pray.

A prophet friend

I have a friend, a prophet friend (I haven't met him in person and yet we have communication by postal mails.) Yes, he is a prophet, a man of God. I have never confided my problems, my secrets with him, but he is gifted; he knows - I mean, God lets him to know - something about my life (physically, emotionally, spiritually, financially, et cetera). Or something about my past, present and future. He started writing me letters in 2002. He has the gift of prophecy. I already experienced a number of them - the fulfillment of his prophecies about me. And most are yet to come. One of these is - let me call this - a rainbow prophecy. Back in 2004, Don wrote me, prophesying and I quote, You are prepared to do great things. I believe it's something that no one else has done or can do or will do. It is so unique to your personality... so common to your life's experience... so dependent upon your color and culture that no one can do it exactly the way God wants you to do it. Is God (through prophet Don) referring to this work, this blog As The Wind Blows? We are yet to see. For now, let me forget about the prophecy and let me enjoy blogging. I don't know but I feel so passionate about As The Wind Blows...

A prophetic dream?

I wrote the poem Island City last year. It was a vision from a night sleep - a dream; and I had it sometime in early or mid-nineties when blogging was not yet born.

I thought the meaning of the vision was for me to write my own book. Or for me to run my own TV program.

But it never happened.

A book hardly fits in the description of the vision. A TV program is more likely because of the showing of credits at the end of each show - but those texts are never a literary piece.

So it can't be a TV.

Then came blogging.

Blogging perfectly suits the vision - the scrolling up of white texts, especially!

History says blogging (online diary) started in 1999. That was barely five years or so after my dream.

Was my dream vision prophetic to the now blogging medium?

I came to know about blogging only last year - nine years after its inception.

I was watching GMA-7's Kapuso Mo, Jessica Soho ["With A Heart Like Yours, Jessica Soho"] one Saturday evening and one of the weekend program features was about blogging. Or about online writers earning bucks by blogging.

I felt a sudden surge in my spirit while watching the program, and I had a Eureka! feeling that blogging is it! That blogging is what my dream vision was all about.

I began last year exploring blogger.com to learn about the technicalities of blogging, and I haven't yet done learning.

I am starting one now (after many attempts to have my own that I can share to the world!) - this blog I titled As The Wind Blows.

Is As The Wind Blows the fulfillment of that dream vision Island City?

We are yet to see.

Island city

I found myself on the edge of a big city, sitting where the waves and the sands met.

Beyond the great waters of blue was an island of green. My eyes were fixed on the island, but it seems I was not looking at the island. Around me were eyes of other races fixed on me.

Then, behind me, a block of white texts came scrolling up from below.

I read as it went up.

And as I read, I panted and I sighed as I grasped the essence of every line of the piece. I felt the warmth of the Hand of Love, holding the very core of my being.

And all of a sudden, I was caught up in the heavens.

And as the wind carried me to the heights, I saw the island below and an island beside it becoming as pebbles.

The sea rippled as the islands submerged like stones thrown into the sea.

And a word and another flashed on the scene one after the other. "Island," it read - and then, "city."