Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
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What makes me happy?
The answer is surprisingly simple. I want to wake up in the morning, exercise, attend to my plants, read a good book, write, meditate, and rest. These ordinary pleasures sustained me during my years in Florida and gave structure and meaning to my days. Now that I have returned to the Philippines for retirement, I am trying to reclaim them, one by one. Unfortunately, the process is moving painfully slowly.
This morning, I woke up feeling slightly better than usual. I decided to skip the allergy medication I often take, wondering whether it might be contributing to my drowsiness. The morning seemed pleasant enough for a walk, so I headed toward Banqueruan. I deliberately limited myself to about 7,000 steps because my feet have recently begun protesting against longer distances. At 64, I have learned that the body sometimes has a different opinion about what constitutes a reasonable workout.
I completed my walk and stopped by the market for breakfast. There was the familiar assortment of sweet bread and rice noodles, the kind of inexpensive, uncomplicated food that reminds me I am back in the country of my birth. I ate, took my metformin afterward, and returned home, satisfied that I had accomplished something worthwhile before the morning was over.
But then came the difficult part of retirement: deciding what to do with the rest of the day.
Back in Florida, my routine was predictable. I would wake up, meditate, exercise, eat breakfast, and attend to my garden. Sometimes I would read or write afterward. On other days, I would drive somewhere, take photographs, or simply enjoy the comfort of having nothing urgent to accomplish. I had spent years developing that lifestyle, and it suited me perfectly. Now, thousands of miles away, I am discovering that reproducing the same routine requires more than time and desire. It requires a place, transportation, practical arrangements, and, above all, patience.
I have already purchased a car, which should restore much of the independence I enjoyed in the United States. The problem now is finding adequate parking. Actually, I need two spaces: one at my parents' house, where I am staying, and another near the property I intend to develop into my garden.
And that brings me to my latest obsession: a hidden piece of land that I imagine becoming my private tropical oasis.
Yesterday, I visited the property again, and the sight of it filled me with excitement. It is tucked away from the crowds, traffic, and noise of the main road. To anyone else, it might look like an overgrown lot with wild bushes and uneven ground. But to me, it is already a garden waiting to happen. I can see monsteras spreading their enormous leaves beneath the shade, ferns filling the damp corners, and climbing vines creating a green wall around the property. Somewhere in the middle, I imagine a quiet place to sit with a book, a cup of coffee, or my laptop.
Of course, imagination is considerably faster than construction.
The lot needs extensive clearing. Some sections have collected stagnant water, and I am concerned about mosquitoes and dengue fever. Those depressions must be filled before I can safely develop the area. The bushes need cutting, unwanted vegetation removed, and the ground reasonably leveled.
I have spoken with a local worker who seems to be the go-to person for this kind of job. We discussed clearing, filling, and creating a parking area. I also recruited my older sister to coordinate the workers, arrange their schedule, and handle their payment, which I will cover.
A tenant currently uses part of the property to store drums that he collects and sells for a living. I have no intention of disrupting his livelihood. We discussed arranging the space so he could continue his business while leaving enough room for my vehicle. I examined the gate's width and explained what I hoped to accomplish. Everyone seemed agreeable, and we settled on a plan.
Agreement, however, is one thing. Execution is another.
I am rediscovering a familiar aspect of life in the Philippines: things do not necessarily happen when I expect them to. After so many years in the United States, where I had grown accustomed to making arrangements and expecting work to proceed on schedule, I now find myself adjusting to a different rhythm.
I am not suggesting that everything in America happens efficiently or that everything here moves slowly. But I have become so accustomed to doing things independently that relying on others and coordinating several projects can be exhausting.
At the moment, three projects compete for my attention: widening the parking space at my parents' house, creating another parking area on my property adjoining the garden lot, and clearing and filling the garden itself. None is particularly complicated, but together they have become a substantial undertaking.
Strangely enough, I love it.
I love having something to look forward to. I love the thought of getting my hands dirty again, trimming plants, moving pots, digging, and transforming an untidy piece of land into something beautiful. Gardening has always been more than a hobby to me. It is exercise, meditation, creativity, and communion with nature. It gives me a reason to get out of bed and move.
The car will also allow me to explore the country where I was born, a place that has become both familiar and strangely foreign after decades away. There are roads I want to drive, towns I want to revisit, and landscapes I want to photograph. I have no desire to rush from one tourist destination to another. I simply want the freedom to go somewhere whenever the mood strikes me.
But all of that will have to wait. And waiting may be the most demanding exercise of my retirement.
By the time I returned from my walk, ate breakfast, and settled into the house, I found myself caught in an absurd collection of conflicting desires.
I wanted to move, but I also wanted to remain perfectly still. I wanted something satisfying to eat without sending my blood sugar soaring. I wanted to walk toward the highway and inspect my garden again, but my feet were tired. I wanted to bring some potted plants indoors because they were struggling in the oppressive heat, but I had no suitable table or shelf for them.
I wanted to read, but I also wanted to sleep. I wanted to sit in a chair, but lying in bed seemed equally attractive. I wanted to accomplish something, yet I could not decide what that something should be. So I sat there, yawning repeatedly, trying to write this meditation.
It was already eleven in the morning.
I still needed a shower, but my phone informed me that the book light I ordered online was out for delivery. Experience has taught me that this notification means very little. The online store has a habit of announcing that a package will arrive soon. Apparently, "soon" can mean anything from fifteen minutes to late afternoon.
Naturally, I suspected that the moment I stepped into the shower would be the precise moment the delivery man arrived at the gate, shouting my name. So I waited and eventually dozed off. I could not tell whether the drowsiness came from my blood sugar, fatigue from walking, or the boredom of waiting for something that might not arrive for another six hours.
When I woke up, my mind wandered toward unrelated matters.
Whatever happened to the tofu vendor? I had not seen him for several days. Had he stopped selling tofu, changed his route, or taken a vacation? I had no idea why his absence suddenly concerned me, but there it was, another small mystery of barrio life occupying my mind.
Then I remembered Gene, whom I had encountered at the bakery some time ago. It occurred to me that I could have paid for his purchase as a small gesture of generosity, perhaps a gift from someone who had just returned from America. The thought never crossed my mind at the time.
That bothered me briefly.
There was a time when I understood the customs and expectations of this place instinctively. I knew how people greeted one another, when to offer something, when to insist, and when to politely decline. These were the unwritten rules of the community where I grew up.
After decades in the United States, some customs have faded from memory. Others have been replaced by American habits, where independence, privacy, and a certain degree of social distance became part of everyday life.
Now I sometimes wonder whether I am behaving appropriately in a place that is supposed to be my home. Am I expected to pay for someone's breakfast? Should I stop and chat longer with an old acquaintance? Am I being too distant? Too American? Too indifferent?
Then another thought interrupts the interrogation.
Why should I care so much at 64?
I am no longer a young man trying to establish himself in the eyes of his neighbors. Most of the people I grew up with have aged alongside me, and some are no longer around. We have traveled separate roads, accumulated private histories, and arrived at this stage of life with different habits and expectations. Surely, by now, we have earned the right to be ourselves.
I did not return to the Philippines to become the person I was before I left. That young man belongs to another time. He had ambitions, anxieties, and a future that seemed endless. I have already lived much of that future. I worked, built a career, made a home in America, developed friendships, experienced losses, and eventually reached retirement.
Coming home does not mean reversing those years. It means bringing the person I have become back to the place where my life began.
Perhaps that is why I am determined to preserve the daily rituals I developed in Florida: meditation, walking, gardening, reading, writing, blogging, and resting. They keep my mind occupied, my body moving, and my spirit peaceful. They are not impressive accomplishments, nor do I intend to present them as such. They simply make me happy.
I do not need an elaborate social calendar, attend every gathering, revive every old friendship, or participate in every neighborhood activity. I certainly do not need to explain my whereabouts or justify how I spend my days. I have spent enough years responding to other people's expectations and have little interest in seeking validation from neighbors, acquaintances, or social media.
Even my Facebook activity has declined considerably. I once enjoyed posting frequently, sharing observations, photographs, videos, and whatever thoughts occupied my mind. I still enjoy creating things, but I no longer feel compelled to display everything.
Some things are more satisfying when they remain private.
My writing does not always need an audience. Neither does my garden. I can spend an afternoon arranging plants, pruning leaves, or experimenting with growing methods without photographing the results and announcing them to the world.
Still, I have not abandoned photography. I suddenly remembered my Canon camera, which has been sitting idle since my move. I should find its charger and give the battery some attention. Once my garden takes shape, I might photograph the plants, experiment with light and shadows, or capture interesting scenes during my countryside drives. Perhaps I will even resume making videos, not because I need people to watch them, but because I enjoy creating them.
For now, everything remains a work in progress.
The garden is overgrown, the parking spaces unfinished, and the workers still need to be scheduled. My plants must somehow survive the heat. My health also requires attention, and my body occasionally reminds me that I can no longer approach physical work with the endurance I had twenty years ago.
Some days, I feel energetic and eager to accomplish everything at once. On others, like today, I can barely decide whether to sit, walk, read, sleep, or take a shower.
Perhaps this is what retirement really looks like when stripped of romantic expectations.
It is not necessarily a permanent vacation or an endless procession of pleasant mornings and perfectly organized afternoons. Sometimes it consists of waiting for a delivery, wondering about a missing tofu vendor, worrying about parking spaces, or sitting in a quiet room while your mind races ahead of your body.
Sometimes it means learning that the things you want most cannot be hurried.
I spent much of my adult life in America building a future. Now that I have returned to the Philippines, I am no longer interested in building another grand future. I want to build a garden, establish a comfortable routine, preserve my health, and enjoy whatever years remain with as much independence and peace as possible.
There is something liberating about such modest ambitions.
I do not need to impress anyone with the size of my property, the car I drive, or the places I visit. A few healthy plants, a comfortable chair, a good book, a working camera, and enough strength in my legs to enjoy a morning walk would be sufficient.
I suppose the real challenge is accepting the time it takes to put these things in place. After all, I have only recently returned to a country I left many years ago. It would be unreasonable to expect everything to fall neatly into place within a few weeks. The house, garden, car, and daily routine will eventually settle into some workable arrangement. When they do, I suspect I will look back at these restless mornings with amusement.
For the moment, I am still sitting here, occasionally yawning, waiting for a book light that may or may not arrive before sunset.
Outside, the tropical heat continues to build. Somewhere beyond the highway lies my hidden garden, still covered in wild vegetation, waiting for someone to uncover the possibilities beneath all that growth.
I can almost see myself there one morning, tending to the plants beneath the shade, listening to the quiet sounds of the barrio, with no appointment to keep and nowhere else I need to be.
That is the retirement I have been imagining. And perhaps, without fully realizing it, I have already begun living it.
I only need to learn how to wait.
2026-10-09 23:19:05
blog
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
The Slow Art of Coming Home
What makes me happy?
The answer is surprisingly simple. I want to wake up in the morning, exercise, attend to my plants, read a good book, write, meditate, and rest. These ordinary pleasures sustained me during my years in Florida and gave structure and meaning to my days. Now that I have returned to the Philippines for retirement, I am trying to reclaim them, one by one. Unfortunately, the process is moving painfully slowly.
This morning, I woke up feeling slightly better than usual. I decided to skip the allergy medication I often take, wondering whether it might be contributing to my drowsiness. The morning seemed pleasant enough for a walk, so I headed toward Banqueruan. I deliberately limited myself to about 7,000 steps because my feet have recently begun protesting against longer distances. At 64, I have learned that the body sometimes has a different opinion about what constitutes a reasonable workout.
I completed my walk and stopped by the market for breakfast. There was the familiar assortment of sweet bread and rice noodles, the kind of inexpensive, uncomplicated food that reminds me I am back in the country of my birth. I ate, took my metformin afterward, and returned home, satisfied that I had accomplished something worthwhile before the morning was over.
But then came the difficult part of retirement: deciding what to do with the rest of the day.
Back in Florida, my routine was predictable. I would wake up, meditate, exercise, eat breakfast, and attend to my garden. Sometimes I would read or write afterward. On other days, I would drive somewhere, take photographs, or simply enjoy the comfort of having nothing urgent to accomplish. I had spent years developing that lifestyle, and it suited me perfectly. Now, thousands of miles away, I am discovering that reproducing the same routine requires more than time and desire. It requires a place, transportation, practical arrangements, and, above all, patience.
I have already purchased a car, which should restore much of the independence I enjoyed in the United States. The problem now is finding adequate parking. Actually, I need two spaces: one at my parents' house, where I am staying, and another near the property I intend to develop into my garden.
And that brings me to my latest obsession: a hidden piece of land that I imagine becoming my private tropical oasis.
Yesterday, I visited the property again, and the sight of it filled me with excitement. It is tucked away from the crowds, traffic, and noise of the main road. To anyone else, it might look like an overgrown lot with wild bushes and uneven ground. But to me, it is already a garden waiting to happen. I can see monsteras spreading their enormous leaves beneath the shade, ferns filling the damp corners, and climbing vines creating a green wall around the property. Somewhere in the middle, I imagine a quiet place to sit with a book, a cup of coffee, or my laptop.
Of course, imagination is considerably faster than construction.
The lot needs extensive clearing. Some sections have collected stagnant water, and I am concerned about mosquitoes and dengue fever. Those depressions must be filled before I can safely develop the area. The bushes need cutting, unwanted vegetation removed, and the ground reasonably leveled.
I have spoken with a local worker who seems to be the go-to person for this kind of job. We discussed clearing, filling, and creating a parking area. I also recruited my older sister to coordinate the workers, arrange their schedule, and handle their payment, which I will cover.
A tenant currently uses part of the property to store drums that he collects and sells for a living. I have no intention of disrupting his livelihood. We discussed arranging the space so he could continue his business while leaving enough room for my vehicle. I examined the gate's width and explained what I hoped to accomplish. Everyone seemed agreeable, and we settled on a plan.
Agreement, however, is one thing. Execution is another.
I am rediscovering a familiar aspect of life in the Philippines: things do not necessarily happen when I expect them to. After so many years in the United States, where I had grown accustomed to making arrangements and expecting work to proceed on schedule, I now find myself adjusting to a different rhythm.
I am not suggesting that everything in America happens efficiently or that everything here moves slowly. But I have become so accustomed to doing things independently that relying on others and coordinating several projects can be exhausting.
At the moment, three projects compete for my attention: widening the parking space at my parents' house, creating another parking area on my property adjoining the garden lot, and clearing and filling the garden itself. None is particularly complicated, but together they have become a substantial undertaking.
Strangely enough, I love it.
I love having something to look forward to. I love the thought of getting my hands dirty again, trimming plants, moving pots, digging, and transforming an untidy piece of land into something beautiful. Gardening has always been more than a hobby to me. It is exercise, meditation, creativity, and communion with nature. It gives me a reason to get out of bed and move.
The car will also allow me to explore the country where I was born, a place that has become both familiar and strangely foreign after decades away. There are roads I want to drive, towns I want to revisit, and landscapes I want to photograph. I have no desire to rush from one tourist destination to another. I simply want the freedom to go somewhere whenever the mood strikes me.
But all of that will have to wait. And waiting may be the most demanding exercise of my retirement.
By the time I returned from my walk, ate breakfast, and settled into the house, I found myself caught in an absurd collection of conflicting desires.
I wanted to move, but I also wanted to remain perfectly still. I wanted something satisfying to eat without sending my blood sugar soaring. I wanted to walk toward the highway and inspect my garden again, but my feet were tired. I wanted to bring some potted plants indoors because they were struggling in the oppressive heat, but I had no suitable table or shelf for them.
I wanted to read, but I also wanted to sleep. I wanted to sit in a chair, but lying in bed seemed equally attractive. I wanted to accomplish something, yet I could not decide what that something should be. So I sat there, yawning repeatedly, trying to write this meditation.
It was already eleven in the morning.
I still needed a shower, but my phone informed me that the book light I ordered online was out for delivery. Experience has taught me that this notification means very little. The online store has a habit of announcing that a package will arrive soon. Apparently, "soon" can mean anything from fifteen minutes to late afternoon.
Naturally, I suspected that the moment I stepped into the shower would be the precise moment the delivery man arrived at the gate, shouting my name. So I waited and eventually dozed off. I could not tell whether the drowsiness came from my blood sugar, fatigue from walking, or the boredom of waiting for something that might not arrive for another six hours.
When I woke up, my mind wandered toward unrelated matters.
Whatever happened to the tofu vendor? I had not seen him for several days. Had he stopped selling tofu, changed his route, or taken a vacation? I had no idea why his absence suddenly concerned me, but there it was, another small mystery of barrio life occupying my mind.
Then I remembered Gene, whom I had encountered at the bakery some time ago. It occurred to me that I could have paid for his purchase as a small gesture of generosity, perhaps a gift from someone who had just returned from America. The thought never crossed my mind at the time.
That bothered me briefly.
There was a time when I understood the customs and expectations of this place instinctively. I knew how people greeted one another, when to offer something, when to insist, and when to politely decline. These were the unwritten rules of the community where I grew up.
After decades in the United States, some customs have faded from memory. Others have been replaced by American habits, where independence, privacy, and a certain degree of social distance became part of everyday life.
Now I sometimes wonder whether I am behaving appropriately in a place that is supposed to be my home. Am I expected to pay for someone's breakfast? Should I stop and chat longer with an old acquaintance? Am I being too distant? Too American? Too indifferent?
Then another thought interrupts the interrogation.
Why should I care so much at 64?
I am no longer a young man trying to establish himself in the eyes of his neighbors. Most of the people I grew up with have aged alongside me, and some are no longer around. We have traveled separate roads, accumulated private histories, and arrived at this stage of life with different habits and expectations. Surely, by now, we have earned the right to be ourselves.
I did not return to the Philippines to become the person I was before I left. That young man belongs to another time. He had ambitions, anxieties, and a future that seemed endless. I have already lived much of that future. I worked, built a career, made a home in America, developed friendships, experienced losses, and eventually reached retirement.
Coming home does not mean reversing those years. It means bringing the person I have become back to the place where my life began.
Perhaps that is why I am determined to preserve the daily rituals I developed in Florida: meditation, walking, gardening, reading, writing, blogging, and resting. They keep my mind occupied, my body moving, and my spirit peaceful. They are not impressive accomplishments, nor do I intend to present them as such. They simply make me happy.
I do not need an elaborate social calendar, attend every gathering, revive every old friendship, or participate in every neighborhood activity. I certainly do not need to explain my whereabouts or justify how I spend my days. I have spent enough years responding to other people's expectations and have little interest in seeking validation from neighbors, acquaintances, or social media.
Even my Facebook activity has declined considerably. I once enjoyed posting frequently, sharing observations, photographs, videos, and whatever thoughts occupied my mind. I still enjoy creating things, but I no longer feel compelled to display everything.
Some things are more satisfying when they remain private.
My writing does not always need an audience. Neither does my garden. I can spend an afternoon arranging plants, pruning leaves, or experimenting with growing methods without photographing the results and announcing them to the world.
Still, I have not abandoned photography. I suddenly remembered my Canon camera, which has been sitting idle since my move. I should find its charger and give the battery some attention. Once my garden takes shape, I might photograph the plants, experiment with light and shadows, or capture interesting scenes during my countryside drives. Perhaps I will even resume making videos, not because I need people to watch them, but because I enjoy creating them.
For now, everything remains a work in progress.
The garden is overgrown, the parking spaces unfinished, and the workers still need to be scheduled. My plants must somehow survive the heat. My health also requires attention, and my body occasionally reminds me that I can no longer approach physical work with the endurance I had twenty years ago.
Some days, I feel energetic and eager to accomplish everything at once. On others, like today, I can barely decide whether to sit, walk, read, sleep, or take a shower.
Perhaps this is what retirement really looks like when stripped of romantic expectations.
It is not necessarily a permanent vacation or an endless procession of pleasant mornings and perfectly organized afternoons. Sometimes it consists of waiting for a delivery, wondering about a missing tofu vendor, worrying about parking spaces, or sitting in a quiet room while your mind races ahead of your body.
Sometimes it means learning that the things you want most cannot be hurried.
I spent much of my adult life in America building a future. Now that I have returned to the Philippines, I am no longer interested in building another grand future. I want to build a garden, establish a comfortable routine, preserve my health, and enjoy whatever years remain with as much independence and peace as possible.
There is something liberating about such modest ambitions.
I do not need to impress anyone with the size of my property, the car I drive, or the places I visit. A few healthy plants, a comfortable chair, a good book, a working camera, and enough strength in my legs to enjoy a morning walk would be sufficient.
I suppose the real challenge is accepting the time it takes to put these things in place. After all, I have only recently returned to a country I left many years ago. It would be unreasonable to expect everything to fall neatly into place within a few weeks. The house, garden, car, and daily routine will eventually settle into some workable arrangement. When they do, I suspect I will look back at these restless mornings with amusement.
For the moment, I am still sitting here, occasionally yawning, waiting for a book light that may or may not arrive before sunset.
Outside, the tropical heat continues to build. Somewhere beyond the highway lies my hidden garden, still covered in wild vegetation, waiting for someone to uncover the possibilities beneath all that growth.
I can almost see myself there one morning, tending to the plants beneath the shade, listening to the quiet sounds of the barrio, with no appointment to keep and nowhere else I need to be.
That is the retirement I have been imagining. And perhaps, without fully realizing it, I have already begun living it.
I only need to learn how to wait.
2026-10-09 23:19:05
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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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