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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