Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
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I woke up suddenly last night because Jim came to me in a dream. He was crying, telling me that his dog, Rocky, had been euthanized. This morning, I walked nearly ten thousand steps, crossing two towns and passing two churches, and somewhere along that long walk, the dream stayed with me.
I still struggle with my losses, and perhaps I will never completely recover from them. They will linger; I am almost certain of that. I had a sister who, despite my occasional anger over what I considered her poor judgment and misplaced priorities, was still the one person with whom I could laugh freely during our long conversations. Then there was Jim, who, despite his history of drug abuse and the many troubles he went through, somehow managed to build a more stable and meaningful life toward the end. They will keep coming back to me. I know they will.
Yesterday, after seeing Jim crying in my dream, I woke up early and stepped onto the balcony. The house was dark, and outside, the barrio was still asleep. I stood there for a long time, almost frozen, trying to understand what the dream meant. More than anything, I wanted to reach into that dream, hug my crying friend, and tell him that everything would be all right in the end.
Eventually, dawn arrived. The first rays of sunlight appeared almost melancholic, soft and distant, but minute by minute they grew stronger until the sun was shining directly into my eyes. I squinted against the glare as my feet carried me along what used to be the main road through town, surveying the place and searching for landmarks that were still familiar to me.
Instead, I was greeted by new concrete houses—bungalows and multistory residences, some displaying a degree of prosperity that certainly wasn't there when I was young. Occasionally, though, I would see one of the old wooden houses I remembered from childhood, weathered and barely standing. Apung Empen's store was still there, although now dilapidated and seemingly ready to collapse upon itself. I remembered the sisters who ran the store. They had the distinctly Spanish features inherited from their ancestors, and all of them chose to remain single throughout their lives. I remembered buying crayons, pencils, and paper from them as a child.
Their lawn had once been beautifully maintained and neatly trimmed. Now it had turned into something resembling a small jungle, overgrown and untended, although still protected behind a locked fence and gate. The house stood at the intersection of the main road and the road leading toward Sasmuan. I followed that road, and by then the sunlight had become sharp enough that I had to squint while trying to take in the landscape.
There were fishponds everywhere, many of them familiar from my childhood. I had visited some of those ponds when I was young. The breeze I remembered seemed to be missing that morning, and the heat was already beginning to settle over everything. Along the road, I saw men unloading sacks of fish feed from a truck and transferring them into smaller bancas waiting along the water. It was Sunday morning, and I thought about how hard these fishermen worked. While much of the town was preparing for church or still waking up, these men were already hauling heavy sacks under the growing heat of the sun.
I walked past the truck and stayed close to the edge of the road as vehicles occasionally passed me—trucks, cars, tricycles, motorcycles, and bicycles. At my age, I have become more cautious about constantly turning my head to watch traffic. Sometimes too much turning makes me dizzy, so I tried to keep a steady pace and remain aware of what was around me without making sudden movements.
I hadn't realized how long the distance between Lubao and Sasmuan could feel on foot. By the end of the walk, my step counter was approaching ten thousand, and when I finally returned home, I could barely move around the house. Still, I somehow managed to drive with my niece to the mall to buy a few things that have become necessary for my daily life.
A microwave was definitely needed, along with extension outlets for the small appliances I have accumulated—an air fryer, electric stove, coffee maker, and electric kettle. I also bought some odor-eliminating air freshener and a spray bottle for misting my plants. Some of their leaves had begun drying and curling because of the extreme heat and lack of humidity. By then, I was exhausted, and fortunately, my other sister had cooked lunch. I ate like a starving man.
When I finally got back to my parents' home, I really couldn't do much anymore. I took a cold shower, dried myself, and resisted the temptation to immediately lie down with wet hair and moisture still around my ears. My last bout of ear pain may have been related to congestion, so I decided to remain seated until everything dried. My fatigue had other plans, however, and I fell asleep sitting upright on my little sofa.
When I woke up late in the afternoon, I remembered the plants I had ordered from Lazada. They had arrived two days earlier, and I hadn't even unboxed them or removed the plastic wrapping. Despite my fatigue, I unpacked them, watered them, and misted the plants I was trying to root. I grouped them together to create a slightly more humid environment around their leaves, something I had learned from gardening books and articles. I had already looked for a humidifier in the big-box stores, but they didn't have what I wanted.
Once all that was done, I found myself thinking again about how the day had begun—with Jim crying in my dream. It is still difficult to escape the sadness when I am doing nothing and my mind is free to wander toward my recent losses. I am doing the best I can, although sometimes I suspect that I am doing too much precisely because I don't want to sit still long enough to feel everything.
That long walk took a lot out of me. It may have done more harm than good. Between the heat, fatigue, and congestion, I nearly pushed my body to the point of breaking down. Movement is good, exercise is good, and walking is good, but there is a difference between moving to stay healthy and moving because you are trying to outrun grief. Perhaps that is one of the lessons I still need to learn.
Walking long distances under the extreme Philippine heat is probably not the ideal lifestyle for me, especially if I am using physical exertion as a way to forget the losses in my life. There has to be moderation. I took my congestion medicine again and decided that today would be a day of rest. Perhaps seven thousand steps is enough, preferably spread out more reasonably instead of trying to reach ten or twelve thousand in one outing. On days when I don't walk much, I can stretch or do exercises inside the house. I also have to consider the gardening I plan to do and the driving I will eventually be doing. Those are activities too, and everything counts.
Speaking of driving, I am still waiting for the completion of my car purchase. There have already been several delays, beginning with the late closing of my Florida house. Then the weekend arrived, which meant banking activity slowed down. The payment has now been transferred from my U.S. bank to the dealership, but an international transaction involving a large amount of money naturally may require additional processing and verification. There is nothing much I can do except wait. The car will eventually end up in my hands; I simply have to stop expecting every transaction here to move at the speed I became accustomed to in the United States.
Yesterday gave me a small lesson in that. I bought a microwave costing less than a hundred dollars at a large store, and I counted what seemed like six different stages involving six different people before that microwave finally left the building with me. I couldn't help laughing. If buying a microwave requires that many steps, then perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that transferring a much larger amount of money from an American bank to a Philippine car dealership takes time.
After decades in the United States, I had become accustomed to a different system. You pay for something, pick it up, put it in your cart, and go home. Sometimes you don't even interact with another human being because the entire transaction can be automated. Here, things can move differently, and I can either spend my retirement being irritated by every difference or learn to adjust. That doesn't mean I won't occasionally complain. Of course I will. I'm still me.
But I also have the ability to meditate, and that is what I have been doing. I can spend as much time with God as I need while the machinery of everyday life slowly works itself out. Here I am, resting in my room after eating the unavoidable pan de sal with tofu, enough to settle my hungry morning stomach, and taking my medication. I wasn't feeling particularly well when I woke up, but after taking Allegra and using Flonase, I began to feel better.
Despite everything—the grief, the fatigue, the congestion, and the waiting—I remain grateful that the Lord brought me back here. I have returned to writing, and these journal entries and blogs serve no grand purpose other than self-expression, but they keep me grounded and fulfilled. Somewhere along this strange road home, I felt the Lord reminding me to return to what I had always done: write.
I don't particularly care anymore whether many people read what I write. Social media no longer holds the same fascination for me. I have kept my promise to post only things I genuinely want to share. My recent visit to Clark was interesting enough to post about, but otherwise I don't feel compelled to upload every place I visit, especially places already being photographed and posted by hundreds of other people. Perhaps this is another quiet message telling me where I should put my energy. Writing is where I have always been most at home.
And it seems to be working. I have returned to journaling and writing more regularly, posting whenever I feel something is worth sharing. All the recent roads in my life somehow seem to have led back here. Sometimes the numbers show increased engagement, although I don't place much importance on them. Some of it may be bots, algorithms, or people simply scrolling past. But occasionally a real person stumbles upon something I wrote. Whether they read it completely or not, whether they agree with it or not, whether they like it or dislike it, I leave that to them—and to the Lord. That is increasingly what my life is all about anyway.
So if anyone asks whether I am sitting here trembling with excitement over my new car, obsessively waiting for the phone to ring, the answer is no—well, maybe a little. I checked the payment again, and it still hadn't cleared. For a moment, I wanted to ask what they were waiting for—approval from God? The United Nations? The President of the United States? Then I laughed and checked how international bank transfers like this normally work. One to four business days. Apparently, I am simply too early.
I also have to remember the time difference between Florida and Pampanga. Daytime here is nighttime there, so while I am awake wondering why nothing is happening, the people on the other side of the transaction may be asleep. Patience, then, is the rule of the game, and meanwhile I continue with my routine.
Now that I have a microwave, I can buy food earlier in the day, refrigerate it, and heat it later. Such a simple appliance suddenly makes daily life much easier. And yes, I am looking forward to having the car. Once I have it, I imagine myself driving to the mall for coffee, maybe buying some good bread, having lunch, and then heading home. Nothing dramatic—just mobility and independence. That sounds pretty good to me.
But again, I have to be careful about overdoing things. Why walk ten or twelve thousand steps every other day when I could walk five or six thousand more regularly? Why subject my body to extremes when moderation is exactly what I have spent years telling other people about? Old age has an amusing way of forcing us to follow our own advice.
Tomorrow there is supposed to be a power outage lasting several hours. Initially, I thought about going all the way to Manila just to find an air-conditioned place during the hottest part of the day. Then I realized I didn't have to go that far. There is a mall nearby, and perhaps one of my nieces can drop me off. I can spend a few hours there while waiting for the electricity to return—sit in a coffee shop with a fresh cup of coffee and work on my articles, walk slowly around the mall, browse the stores, check the grocery section, and see what might be useful.
There is also the possibility that the car payment will finally clear. If that happens, staying nearby would make sense, and perhaps I could even come home with my new car. Then I could begin rebuilding some of the simple rituals I had in Florida—not duplicating my old life exactly, but adapting its useful parts to this new one. I could drive to nearby towns, park in San Fernando, take a bus to Manila when necessary, and handle my business in Intramuros, particularly the paperwork connected with immigration and citizenship. Maybe afterward I could walk a little around Luneta.
Slowly—that is the important word now. I want to visit places at my own comfortable pace and enjoy what I see. There is so much of the Philippines I have never truly explored, despite being born here. I am also aware that the years of complete physical independence ahead of me are not unlimited. That isn't pessimism; it is simply the reality of aging. As long as I can still walk, drive, travel, garden, write, and wander through a town on a Sunday morning, I want to enjoy that freedom.
That Sunday walk reminded me of something else. Along the road, I encountered other walkers—young and old—who seemed just as determined as I was to get their morning exercise. But one particular scene stayed with me. As I passed the church in Lubao, I saw a group of young men gathered beside it. I wasn't sure exactly what the gathering was for, but there was something beautiful about the uniformity of their clothing and what it seemed to represent. Most wore white polo shirts and black pants and carried a religious banner as though they were preparing to process toward the sanctuary.
Only a few weeks earlier, the area around the church had been flooded for an unusually long time. The first time I ventured into town after returning home, the flood surrounding the church was one of the first things I noticed, and it prevented me from walking farther. The old church itself appeared to need considerable restoration and rehabilitation, and services seemed to have been moved temporarily to another building nearby.
Yet I found myself thinking about how that centuries-old church had survived almost every imaginable calamity that had visited this town and this country—floods, storms, wars, political upheavals, poverty, and generations of human struggle. Still, there it stood, and still the townspeople gathered and continued the rituals handed down through generations. There was something deeply moving about that resilience, something quietly magical about this town and its people that morning.
I may occasionally criticize things I encounter here, particularly when frustration gets the better of me, but that is only part of what I see. For the most part, the people I encounter are ordinary people trying to live decent lives—working, raising families, practicing their faith, and carrying on. I watched a father wearing a barong riding an old tricycle with his young daughter, who was dressed almost like a little princess, presumably on their way to church. Their transportation may have been modest, but they were dressed beautifully for Sunday worship.
Farther along, I passed the fishermen tending their ponds. It was Sunday, yet they were already working. In the quiet morning, they unloaded heavy sacks of fish feed and transferred them into bancas waiting along the banks. Those boats would carry the feed somewhere across the ponds, to places I couldn't see. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to impress anyone; there was simply work to be done, and there was dignity in that work. I kept walking, taking it all in.
Perhaps that is what this stage of my life is becoming: learning how to keep walking without always rushing, learning how to remember without allowing memory to destroy the present, learning how to grieve without trying to outrun grief, and learning how to accept that the world does not have to move according to my preferred timetable. The car will arrive when it arrives, the plants will grow at their own pace, the town will continue changing, and my body will tell me when I have walked far enough.
The people I have lost will also continue visiting me—in memories, in dreams, and in sudden moments when I am standing alone in the dark before dawn. I cannot change any of that, but I can continue to walk, garden, write, and pray. For now, perhaps that is more than enough.
2026-09-30 23:27:02
blog
It has been a day since I went through that exhausting series of errands: a laboratory visit for my blood-type test, a stop at the Toyota dealership, breakfast and lunch, a walk around Clark, an application for my birth certificate, and finally picking up my laundry. None of those things sounds particularly strenuous by itself, but by the end of the day, I was completely drained. I suspect the real culprit was not the errands but the heat. I felt exhausted, sweaty, dirty, and uncomfortable—the smell of perspiration, the gritty feeling on my skin, the general stickiness of being outdoors in this climate. Thank God for a cold shower and for finally having my blankets back from the laundry. I slept deeply through most of the afternoon and into the evening.
I also managed to control my carbohydrate intake somewhat, which is good considering how much rice I have been eating since returning to my ancestral home in the barrio. Old habits have a way of returning along with old surroundings.
Despite the exhaustion, I accomplished several things I had been putting off. I kept up with my meditation journal, which is important to me, and since last night I have been working on the closing of my Florida house, now scheduled in two days. If everything goes smoothly, I should finally have access to the proceeds from the sale and can move forward with buying a new vehicle here. Having a car would restore a certain freedom I have been missing since I arrived. I would no longer have to spend so much time exposed to the heat while going to the market, stores, government offices, or wherever else I need to go. I could drive to an air-conditioned mall, take a longer trip, or even check into a hotel somewhere for a change of scenery. I would once again have the freedom simply to get in the car and go. Hopefully, that happens sometime next week.
I have also been thinking about going to Manila for a few days. Being cooped up in one place for too long is not healthy for me. I need variety in my life, just as I did in the United States. I don't want to live in a tomb while I am still alive. I want movement, new scenery, different experiences, and occasional breaks from the routine.
But there is a caveat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind are lingering temptations to recreate the life and pleasures of my younger years—to exercise as intensely as I once did, wander around endlessly, stay out late, and perhaps chase the kinds of good times that belonged to another stage of my life. But I have to be realistic. My age, energy level, and physical limitations have changed the equation. Yesterday was proof enough. A handful of ordinary errands in the heat left me completely exhausted. It would be foolish to expect my body to perform as though I were half my present age. Accepting that is not surrender. It is simply recognizing reality.
This morning, I woke up to the usual flurry of activity among my older brother's family. That, too, is something I have to get used to. I admit that it irritates me sometimes because I became so accustomed to a quiet life in the United States. When Jim and I shared the same house, we hardly spoke to each other for long stretches of the day, and perhaps that was one reason we lived together so peacefully. We both respected silence. Our conversations were mostly small talk and occasional short discussions before each of us returned to his own world. Jim had his sports on television, his beer, and his cigarettes—not all the time, of course—while I had my video editing, meditative writing, websites, and, for many years, social media.
Perhaps that long attachment to social media is also why I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with it.
I find myself growing tired of people documenting nearly everything under the sun, especially when ordinary experiences seem to be presented as demonstrations of status. A trip becomes an opportunity to mention the cars. A family update becomes a catalog of houses, properties, accomplishments, and possessions. Then, almost as an afterthought, God is invoked as the source of all these "blessings."
That is where I become uncomfortable.
There is nothing wrong with being grateful for what we have. There is nothing wrong with owning a nice house, driving a good car, succeeding in business, or celebrating the accomplishments of our children. But I sometimes wonder where gratitude ends and performance begins. When does thanking God quietly for what we have turn into announcing our possessions so that other people will admire—or perhaps envy—us? I cannot answer that question for anyone else. I can only ask it of myself.
And maybe that is why I am grateful that I have gradually escaped much of social media's pull. I have drastically reduced my posting and now try to share only things that genuinely interest me rather than every passing detail of my existence.
There is another kind of social-media behavior that bothers me even more: the constant judging and condemning of other people in the name of God. I see acquaintances proclaiming their religious beliefs while simultaneously attacking people whose lives, identities, politics, or values differ from their own. I have even watched an old coworker move from political posts into repeated condemnations of LGBT and transgender people, often wrapping those judgments in religious language. Whether I agree or disagree with someone's beliefs is almost beside the point. What troubles me is the certainty with which some people assume that their personal judgments are identical to God's.
Ironically, I often don't even unfollow these people because I know them personally and don't want to hurt them. So I scroll past the posts, shake my head, and move on.
Then there are those who seem obsessed with views, followers, likes, and engagement, constantly thanking their "supporters" as though they have suddenly become celebrities. I sometimes laugh at it, but underneath the humor is something I find genuinely sad. Social media has created a strange world in which numbers generated partly by algorithms can begin to feel like measurements of human worth. Followers become status. Views become validation. Ordinary moments become performances because apparently no breakfast, shopping trip, vacation, or afternoon stroll can be allowed to disappear without being documented for an audience.
Of course, I have participated in this world myself. That is why I cannot pretend to stand completely outside it.
Perhaps my criticism of other people is also telling me something about myself. Maybe I am becoming the stereotypical grumpy old man, increasingly irritated by things younger—or simply different—people consider normal. I have to admit that possibility. Age has a way of making us compare the present with the world we remember, and memory is hardly an impartial judge. We tend to polish the past while magnifying everything that annoys us about the present. So perhaps some of what I call wisdom is simply age talking.
Still, something deeper continues to bother me, and it goes beyond social media or this particular town. It is a cultural shift I have noticed in many places: the growing tendency to measure a person's value through money, possessions, visibility, influence, and status.
I notice it when I travel through town with relatives and the conversation turns to businesses, hotels, quarries, supermarkets, properties, and the families who own them. Stories circulate about how certain fortunes began, how businesses expanded, how political connections were cultivated, and how money gradually translated into influence and respectability. Some of those histories are complicated and controversial, and I do not pretend to know every fact behind them. But what fascinates me is how easily wealth itself can eventually become evidence of virtue in people's minds. Once enough money has accumulated, people often stop asking where it came from. Success becomes its own justification.
That, perhaps, is what bothers me most.
Money becomes not merely something useful but a certificate of importance. Wealth becomes proof that someone has lived correctly. A large house, another property, a business, an expensive vehicle—these become visible evidence that a person has "made it." People admire the finished mansion without necessarily asking about the foundation underneath it.
I sometimes miss a simpler standard, perhaps partly imagined through nostalgia, when qualities such as honesty, integrity, hard work, intelligence, wisdom, respectability, and fear of God seemed to carry more weight. Today I met one or two old acquaintances, and before long the conversation turned to properties—what they owned, what they were building, what vehicles they drove. Guiltily, I played along and acted impressed.
The funny thing is that I have accumulated material things myself. I am not writing this from a hut while wearing sackcloth. I owned a house in Florida. I still have property. I am preparing to buy a new vehicle. I spent decades working in America and benefited from that life. So it would be hypocritical for me to condemn possessions themselves.
The difference I am trying to understand is between 'having' something and needing other people to 'know that I have it'.
That distinction matters to me.
Whatever I accumulated came through decades of work, opportunity, sacrifice, good fortune, and, from my perspective as a believer, the grace of God. I do not feel compelled to use those things to establish my position relative to another person. When I meet someone, I don't want to mentally calculate whether he has more than I do or whether I have more than he does. What would be the point? Eventually, both of us leave everything behind.
Maybe Ecclesiastes has been whispering into my ear again.
"Vanity of vanities."
Everything we accumulate, display, defend, compare, and brag about eventually becomes somebody else's problem to sort through.
That brings me back to what I am most grateful for. The gifts I increasingly value are not the things parked in a garage or recorded on a property title. They are the quieter gifts: meditation, writing, reading, creating stories, building my little websites, gardening, learning, thinking, and expressing what is going on inside my mind. These things do not require an audience. I can write a story and post it on a website I created myself even if hardly anyone reads it. I can meditate without announcing that I meditated. I can read without photographing the book. I can enjoy a garden without needing strangers to admire it.
For me, that may be one of the great lessons of retirement.
I spent much of my life working, acquiring, accomplishing, moving, and preparing for the next thing. Now I am entering a period when perhaps the better question is not, What else can I accumulate? but What can I appreciate without needing anyone else's approval?
Maybe that is why writing like this has become so important. Meditation and writing give me somewhere to place all these observations, frustrations, temptations, judgments, contradictions, and occasional bursts of grumpiness. Without them, I might sit around staring at the walls, chase pleasures that no longer fit the person I have become, or return to the very social-media habits I criticize.
Instead, I can sit here and write.
And perhaps that is enough.
The world can continue counting followers, properties, vehicles, bank accounts, views, businesses, and whatever other measurements it chooses. I am trying—imperfectly, certainly—to use a different measuring stick.
At this stage of my life, I would rather measure wealth by peace of mind, freedom of movement, the ability to create, the health to walk another mile, the presence of family, the wisdom to know my limitations, and the quiet assurance that I can sit alone with my thoughts without needing the whole world to applaud them.
And above all, I remain grateful to God—not because I have something to display, but because I have been given enough to live, enough to think, enough to create, and enough time left to understand the difference.
2026-09-26 01:31:11
blog
Dawn and Morning
I woke up suddenly last night because Jim came to me in a dream. He was crying, telling me that his dog, Rocky, had been euthanized. This morning, I walked nearly ten thousand steps, crossing two towns and passing two churches, and somewhere along that long walk, the dream stayed with me.
I still struggle with my losses, and perhaps I will never completely recover from them. They will linger; I am almost certain of that. I had a sister who, despite my occasional anger over what I considered her poor judgment and misplaced priorities, was still the one person with whom I could laugh freely during our long conversations. Then there was Jim, who, despite his history of drug abuse and the many troubles he went through, somehow managed to build a more stable and meaningful life toward the end. They will keep coming back to me. I know they will.
Yesterday, after seeing Jim crying in my dream, I woke up early and stepped onto the balcony. The house was dark, and outside, the barrio was still asleep. I stood there for a long time, almost frozen, trying to understand what the dream meant. More than anything, I wanted to reach into that dream, hug my crying friend, and tell him that everything would be all right in the end.
Eventually, dawn arrived. The first rays of sunlight appeared almost melancholic, soft and distant, but minute by minute they grew stronger until the sun was shining directly into my eyes. I squinted against the glare as my feet carried me along what used to be the main road through town, surveying the place and searching for landmarks that were still familiar to me.
Instead, I was greeted by new concrete houses—bungalows and multistory residences, some displaying a degree of prosperity that certainly wasn't there when I was young. Occasionally, though, I would see one of the old wooden houses I remembered from childhood, weathered and barely standing. Apung Empen's store was still there, although now dilapidated and seemingly ready to collapse upon itself. I remembered the sisters who ran the store. They had the distinctly Spanish features inherited from their ancestors, and all of them chose to remain single throughout their lives. I remembered buying crayons, pencils, and paper from them as a child.
Their lawn had once been beautifully maintained and neatly trimmed. Now it had turned into something resembling a small jungle, overgrown and untended, although still protected behind a locked fence and gate. The house stood at the intersection of the main road and the road leading toward Sasmuan. I followed that road, and by then the sunlight had become sharp enough that I had to squint while trying to take in the landscape.
There were fishponds everywhere, many of them familiar from my childhood. I had visited some of those ponds when I was young. The breeze I remembered seemed to be missing that morning, and the heat was already beginning to settle over everything. Along the road, I saw men unloading sacks of fish feed from a truck and transferring them into smaller bancas waiting along the water. It was Sunday morning, and I thought about how hard these fishermen worked. While much of the town was preparing for church or still waking up, these men were already hauling heavy sacks under the growing heat of the sun.
I walked past the truck and stayed close to the edge of the road as vehicles occasionally passed me—trucks, cars, tricycles, motorcycles, and bicycles. At my age, I have become more cautious about constantly turning my head to watch traffic. Sometimes too much turning makes me dizzy, so I tried to keep a steady pace and remain aware of what was around me without making sudden movements.
I hadn't realized how long the distance between Lubao and Sasmuan could feel on foot. By the end of the walk, my step counter was approaching ten thousand, and when I finally returned home, I could barely move around the house. Still, I somehow managed to drive with my niece to the mall to buy a few things that have become necessary for my daily life.
A microwave was definitely needed, along with extension outlets for the small appliances I have accumulated—an air fryer, electric stove, coffee maker, and electric kettle. I also bought some odor-eliminating air freshener and a spray bottle for misting my plants. Some of their leaves had begun drying and curling because of the extreme heat and lack of humidity. By then, I was exhausted, and fortunately, my other sister had cooked lunch. I ate like a starving man.
When I finally got back to my parents' home, I really couldn't do much anymore. I took a cold shower, dried myself, and resisted the temptation to immediately lie down with wet hair and moisture still around my ears. My last bout of ear pain may have been related to congestion, so I decided to remain seated until everything dried. My fatigue had other plans, however, and I fell asleep sitting upright on my little sofa.
When I woke up late in the afternoon, I remembered the plants I had ordered from Lazada. They had arrived two days earlier, and I hadn't even unboxed them or removed the plastic wrapping. Despite my fatigue, I unpacked them, watered them, and misted the plants I was trying to root. I grouped them together to create a slightly more humid environment around their leaves, something I had learned from gardening books and articles. I had already looked for a humidifier in the big-box stores, but they didn't have what I wanted.
Once all that was done, I found myself thinking again about how the day had begun—with Jim crying in my dream. It is still difficult to escape the sadness when I am doing nothing and my mind is free to wander toward my recent losses. I am doing the best I can, although sometimes I suspect that I am doing too much precisely because I don't want to sit still long enough to feel everything.
That long walk took a lot out of me. It may have done more harm than good. Between the heat, fatigue, and congestion, I nearly pushed my body to the point of breaking down. Movement is good, exercise is good, and walking is good, but there is a difference between moving to stay healthy and moving because you are trying to outrun grief. Perhaps that is one of the lessons I still need to learn.
Walking long distances under the extreme Philippine heat is probably not the ideal lifestyle for me, especially if I am using physical exertion as a way to forget the losses in my life. There has to be moderation. I took my congestion medicine again and decided that today would be a day of rest. Perhaps seven thousand steps is enough, preferably spread out more reasonably instead of trying to reach ten or twelve thousand in one outing. On days when I don't walk much, I can stretch or do exercises inside the house. I also have to consider the gardening I plan to do and the driving I will eventually be doing. Those are activities too, and everything counts.
Speaking of driving, I am still waiting for the completion of my car purchase. There have already been several delays, beginning with the late closing of my Florida house. Then the weekend arrived, which meant banking activity slowed down. The payment has now been transferred from my U.S. bank to the dealership, but an international transaction involving a large amount of money naturally may require additional processing and verification. There is nothing much I can do except wait. The car will eventually end up in my hands; I simply have to stop expecting every transaction here to move at the speed I became accustomed to in the United States.
Yesterday gave me a small lesson in that. I bought a microwave costing less than a hundred dollars at a large store, and I counted what seemed like six different stages involving six different people before that microwave finally left the building with me. I couldn't help laughing. If buying a microwave requires that many steps, then perhaps I shouldn't be surprised that transferring a much larger amount of money from an American bank to a Philippine car dealership takes time.
After decades in the United States, I had become accustomed to a different system. You pay for something, pick it up, put it in your cart, and go home. Sometimes you don't even interact with another human being because the entire transaction can be automated. Here, things can move differently, and I can either spend my retirement being irritated by every difference or learn to adjust. That doesn't mean I won't occasionally complain. Of course I will. I'm still me.
But I also have the ability to meditate, and that is what I have been doing. I can spend as much time with God as I need while the machinery of everyday life slowly works itself out. Here I am, resting in my room after eating the unavoidable pan de sal with tofu, enough to settle my hungry morning stomach, and taking my medication. I wasn't feeling particularly well when I woke up, but after taking Allegra and using Flonase, I began to feel better.
Despite everything—the grief, the fatigue, the congestion, and the waiting—I remain grateful that the Lord brought me back here. I have returned to writing, and these journal entries and blogs serve no grand purpose other than self-expression, but they keep me grounded and fulfilled. Somewhere along this strange road home, I felt the Lord reminding me to return to what I had always done: write.
I don't particularly care anymore whether many people read what I write. Social media no longer holds the same fascination for me. I have kept my promise to post only things I genuinely want to share. My recent visit to Clark was interesting enough to post about, but otherwise I don't feel compelled to upload every place I visit, especially places already being photographed and posted by hundreds of other people. Perhaps this is another quiet message telling me where I should put my energy. Writing is where I have always been most at home.
And it seems to be working. I have returned to journaling and writing more regularly, posting whenever I feel something is worth sharing. All the recent roads in my life somehow seem to have led back here. Sometimes the numbers show increased engagement, although I don't place much importance on them. Some of it may be bots, algorithms, or people simply scrolling past. But occasionally a real person stumbles upon something I wrote. Whether they read it completely or not, whether they agree with it or not, whether they like it or dislike it, I leave that to them—and to the Lord. That is increasingly what my life is all about anyway.
So if anyone asks whether I am sitting here trembling with excitement over my new car, obsessively waiting for the phone to ring, the answer is no—well, maybe a little. I checked the payment again, and it still hadn't cleared. For a moment, I wanted to ask what they were waiting for—approval from God? The United Nations? The President of the United States? Then I laughed and checked how international bank transfers like this normally work. One to four business days. Apparently, I am simply too early.
I also have to remember the time difference between Florida and Pampanga. Daytime here is nighttime there, so while I am awake wondering why nothing is happening, the people on the other side of the transaction may be asleep. Patience, then, is the rule of the game, and meanwhile I continue with my routine.
Now that I have a microwave, I can buy food earlier in the day, refrigerate it, and heat it later. Such a simple appliance suddenly makes daily life much easier. And yes, I am looking forward to having the car. Once I have it, I imagine myself driving to the mall for coffee, maybe buying some good bread, having lunch, and then heading home. Nothing dramatic—just mobility and independence. That sounds pretty good to me.
But again, I have to be careful about overdoing things. Why walk ten or twelve thousand steps every other day when I could walk five or six thousand more regularly? Why subject my body to extremes when moderation is exactly what I have spent years telling other people about? Old age has an amusing way of forcing us to follow our own advice.
Tomorrow there is supposed to be a power outage lasting several hours. Initially, I thought about going all the way to Manila just to find an air-conditioned place during the hottest part of the day. Then I realized I didn't have to go that far. There is a mall nearby, and perhaps one of my nieces can drop me off. I can spend a few hours there while waiting for the electricity to return—sit in a coffee shop with a fresh cup of coffee and work on my articles, walk slowly around the mall, browse the stores, check the grocery section, and see what might be useful.
There is also the possibility that the car payment will finally clear. If that happens, staying nearby would make sense, and perhaps I could even come home with my new car. Then I could begin rebuilding some of the simple rituals I had in Florida—not duplicating my old life exactly, but adapting its useful parts to this new one. I could drive to nearby towns, park in San Fernando, take a bus to Manila when necessary, and handle my business in Intramuros, particularly the paperwork connected with immigration and citizenship. Maybe afterward I could walk a little around Luneta.
Slowly—that is the important word now. I want to visit places at my own comfortable pace and enjoy what I see. There is so much of the Philippines I have never truly explored, despite being born here. I am also aware that the years of complete physical independence ahead of me are not unlimited. That isn't pessimism; it is simply the reality of aging. As long as I can still walk, drive, travel, garden, write, and wander through a town on a Sunday morning, I want to enjoy that freedom.
That Sunday walk reminded me of something else. Along the road, I encountered other walkers—young and old—who seemed just as determined as I was to get their morning exercise. But one particular scene stayed with me. As I passed the church in Lubao, I saw a group of young men gathered beside it. I wasn't sure exactly what the gathering was for, but there was something beautiful about the uniformity of their clothing and what it seemed to represent. Most wore white polo shirts and black pants and carried a religious banner as though they were preparing to process toward the sanctuary.
Only a few weeks earlier, the area around the church had been flooded for an unusually long time. The first time I ventured into town after returning home, the flood surrounding the church was one of the first things I noticed, and it prevented me from walking farther. The old church itself appeared to need considerable restoration and rehabilitation, and services seemed to have been moved temporarily to another building nearby.
Yet I found myself thinking about how that centuries-old church had survived almost every imaginable calamity that had visited this town and this country—floods, storms, wars, political upheavals, poverty, and generations of human struggle. Still, there it stood, and still the townspeople gathered and continued the rituals handed down through generations. There was something deeply moving about that resilience, something quietly magical about this town and its people that morning.
I may occasionally criticize things I encounter here, particularly when frustration gets the better of me, but that is only part of what I see. For the most part, the people I encounter are ordinary people trying to live decent lives—working, raising families, practicing their faith, and carrying on. I watched a father wearing a barong riding an old tricycle with his young daughter, who was dressed almost like a little princess, presumably on their way to church. Their transportation may have been modest, but they were dressed beautifully for Sunday worship.
Farther along, I passed the fishermen tending their ponds. It was Sunday, yet they were already working. In the quiet morning, they unloaded heavy sacks of fish feed and transferred them into bancas waiting along the banks. Those boats would carry the feed somewhere across the ponds, to places I couldn't see. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry to impress anyone; there was simply work to be done, and there was dignity in that work. I kept walking, taking it all in.
Perhaps that is what this stage of my life is becoming: learning how to keep walking without always rushing, learning how to remember without allowing memory to destroy the present, learning how to grieve without trying to outrun grief, and learning how to accept that the world does not have to move according to my preferred timetable. The car will arrive when it arrives, the plants will grow at their own pace, the town will continue changing, and my body will tell me when I have walked far enough.
The people I have lost will also continue visiting me—in memories, in dreams, and in sudden moments when I am standing alone in the dark before dawn. I cannot change any of that, but I can continue to walk, garden, write, and pray. For now, perhaps that is more than enough.
2026-09-30 23:27:02
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The Changing Measures in Life
It has been a day since I went through that exhausting series of errands: a laboratory visit for my blood-type test, a stop at the Toyota dealership, breakfast and lunch, a walk around Clark, an application for my birth certificate, and finally picking up my laundry. None of those things sounds particularly strenuous by itself, but by the end of the day, I was completely drained. I suspect the real culprit was not the errands but the heat. I felt exhausted, sweaty, dirty, and uncomfortable—the smell of perspiration, the gritty feeling on my skin, the general stickiness of being outdoors in this climate. Thank God for a cold shower and for finally having my blankets back from the laundry. I slept deeply through most of the afternoon and into the evening.
I also managed to control my carbohydrate intake somewhat, which is good considering how much rice I have been eating since returning to my ancestral home in the barrio. Old habits have a way of returning along with old surroundings.
Despite the exhaustion, I accomplished several things I had been putting off. I kept up with my meditation journal, which is important to me, and since last night I have been working on the closing of my Florida house, now scheduled in two days. If everything goes smoothly, I should finally have access to the proceeds from the sale and can move forward with buying a new vehicle here. Having a car would restore a certain freedom I have been missing since I arrived. I would no longer have to spend so much time exposed to the heat while going to the market, stores, government offices, or wherever else I need to go. I could drive to an air-conditioned mall, take a longer trip, or even check into a hotel somewhere for a change of scenery. I would once again have the freedom simply to get in the car and go. Hopefully, that happens sometime next week.
I have also been thinking about going to Manila for a few days. Being cooped up in one place for too long is not healthy for me. I need variety in my life, just as I did in the United States. I don't want to live in a tomb while I am still alive. I want movement, new scenery, different experiences, and occasional breaks from the routine.
But there is a caveat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind are lingering temptations to recreate the life and pleasures of my younger years—to exercise as intensely as I once did, wander around endlessly, stay out late, and perhaps chase the kinds of good times that belonged to another stage of my life. But I have to be realistic. My age, energy level, and physical limitations have changed the equation. Yesterday was proof enough. A handful of ordinary errands in the heat left me completely exhausted. It would be foolish to expect my body to perform as though I were half my present age. Accepting that is not surrender. It is simply recognizing reality.
This morning, I woke up to the usual flurry of activity among my older brother's family. That, too, is something I have to get used to. I admit that it irritates me sometimes because I became so accustomed to a quiet life in the United States. When Jim and I shared the same house, we hardly spoke to each other for long stretches of the day, and perhaps that was one reason we lived together so peacefully. We both respected silence. Our conversations were mostly small talk and occasional short discussions before each of us returned to his own world. Jim had his sports on television, his beer, and his cigarettes—not all the time, of course—while I had my video editing, meditative writing, websites, and, for many years, social media.
Perhaps that long attachment to social media is also why I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with it.
I find myself growing tired of people documenting nearly everything under the sun, especially when ordinary experiences seem to be presented as demonstrations of status. A trip becomes an opportunity to mention the cars. A family update becomes a catalog of houses, properties, accomplishments, and possessions. Then, almost as an afterthought, God is invoked as the source of all these "blessings."
That is where I become uncomfortable.
There is nothing wrong with being grateful for what we have. There is nothing wrong with owning a nice house, driving a good car, succeeding in business, or celebrating the accomplishments of our children. But I sometimes wonder where gratitude ends and performance begins. When does thanking God quietly for what we have turn into announcing our possessions so that other people will admire—or perhaps envy—us? I cannot answer that question for anyone else. I can only ask it of myself.
And maybe that is why I am grateful that I have gradually escaped much of social media's pull. I have drastically reduced my posting and now try to share only things that genuinely interest me rather than every passing detail of my existence.
There is another kind of social-media behavior that bothers me even more: the constant judging and condemning of other people in the name of God. I see acquaintances proclaiming their religious beliefs while simultaneously attacking people whose lives, identities, politics, or values differ from their own. I have even watched an old coworker move from political posts into repeated condemnations of LGBT and transgender people, often wrapping those judgments in religious language. Whether I agree or disagree with someone's beliefs is almost beside the point. What troubles me is the certainty with which some people assume that their personal judgments are identical to God's.
Ironically, I often don't even unfollow these people because I know them personally and don't want to hurt them. So I scroll past the posts, shake my head, and move on.
Then there are those who seem obsessed with views, followers, likes, and engagement, constantly thanking their "supporters" as though they have suddenly become celebrities. I sometimes laugh at it, but underneath the humor is something I find genuinely sad. Social media has created a strange world in which numbers generated partly by algorithms can begin to feel like measurements of human worth. Followers become status. Views become validation. Ordinary moments become performances because apparently no breakfast, shopping trip, vacation, or afternoon stroll can be allowed to disappear without being documented for an audience.
Of course, I have participated in this world myself. That is why I cannot pretend to stand completely outside it.
Perhaps my criticism of other people is also telling me something about myself. Maybe I am becoming the stereotypical grumpy old man, increasingly irritated by things younger—or simply different—people consider normal. I have to admit that possibility. Age has a way of making us compare the present with the world we remember, and memory is hardly an impartial judge. We tend to polish the past while magnifying everything that annoys us about the present. So perhaps some of what I call wisdom is simply age talking.
Still, something deeper continues to bother me, and it goes beyond social media or this particular town. It is a cultural shift I have noticed in many places: the growing tendency to measure a person's value through money, possessions, visibility, influence, and status.
I notice it when I travel through town with relatives and the conversation turns to businesses, hotels, quarries, supermarkets, properties, and the families who own them. Stories circulate about how certain fortunes began, how businesses expanded, how political connections were cultivated, and how money gradually translated into influence and respectability. Some of those histories are complicated and controversial, and I do not pretend to know every fact behind them. But what fascinates me is how easily wealth itself can eventually become evidence of virtue in people's minds. Once enough money has accumulated, people often stop asking where it came from. Success becomes its own justification.
That, perhaps, is what bothers me most.
Money becomes not merely something useful but a certificate of importance. Wealth becomes proof that someone has lived correctly. A large house, another property, a business, an expensive vehicle—these become visible evidence that a person has "made it." People admire the finished mansion without necessarily asking about the foundation underneath it.
I sometimes miss a simpler standard, perhaps partly imagined through nostalgia, when qualities such as honesty, integrity, hard work, intelligence, wisdom, respectability, and fear of God seemed to carry more weight. Today I met one or two old acquaintances, and before long the conversation turned to properties—what they owned, what they were building, what vehicles they drove. Guiltily, I played along and acted impressed.
The funny thing is that I have accumulated material things myself. I am not writing this from a hut while wearing sackcloth. I owned a house in Florida. I still have property. I am preparing to buy a new vehicle. I spent decades working in America and benefited from that life. So it would be hypocritical for me to condemn possessions themselves.
The difference I am trying to understand is between 'having' something and needing other people to 'know that I have it'.
That distinction matters to me.
Whatever I accumulated came through decades of work, opportunity, sacrifice, good fortune, and, from my perspective as a believer, the grace of God. I do not feel compelled to use those things to establish my position relative to another person. When I meet someone, I don't want to mentally calculate whether he has more than I do or whether I have more than he does. What would be the point? Eventually, both of us leave everything behind.
Maybe Ecclesiastes has been whispering into my ear again.
"Vanity of vanities."
Everything we accumulate, display, defend, compare, and brag about eventually becomes somebody else's problem to sort through.
That brings me back to what I am most grateful for. The gifts I increasingly value are not the things parked in a garage or recorded on a property title. They are the quieter gifts: meditation, writing, reading, creating stories, building my little websites, gardening, learning, thinking, and expressing what is going on inside my mind. These things do not require an audience. I can write a story and post it on a website I created myself even if hardly anyone reads it. I can meditate without announcing that I meditated. I can read without photographing the book. I can enjoy a garden without needing strangers to admire it.
For me, that may be one of the great lessons of retirement.
I spent much of my life working, acquiring, accomplishing, moving, and preparing for the next thing. Now I am entering a period when perhaps the better question is not, What else can I accumulate? but What can I appreciate without needing anyone else's approval?
Maybe that is why writing like this has become so important. Meditation and writing give me somewhere to place all these observations, frustrations, temptations, judgments, contradictions, and occasional bursts of grumpiness. Without them, I might sit around staring at the walls, chase pleasures that no longer fit the person I have become, or return to the very social-media habits I criticize.
Instead, I can sit here and write.
And perhaps that is enough.
The world can continue counting followers, properties, vehicles, bank accounts, views, businesses, and whatever other measurements it chooses. I am trying—imperfectly, certainly—to use a different measuring stick.
At this stage of my life, I would rather measure wealth by peace of mind, freedom of movement, the ability to create, the health to walk another mile, the presence of family, the wisdom to know my limitations, and the quiet assurance that I can sit alone with my thoughts without needing the whole world to applaud them.
And above all, I remain grateful to God—not because I have something to display, but because I have been given enough to live, enough to think, enough to create, and enough time left to understand the difference.
2026-09-26 01:31:11
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