Ajisai (Hydrangea) Season

I grew up as a "Flores de Mayo baby".

Most probably, I learned how to sing the Flores de Mayo songs right before I even learned to sing any other songs. But, if there was one thing that you should never mess with me back then, aside from my off key belting out of Hiligaynon songs, was my afternoon halad (floral offering). We took the preparations of our halad to a different level of "floral geekiness", mind you. Right after lunchtime, we would go around our small garden to look for fully bloomed flowers, or we would even take the pains of walking around the neighborhood, under the sweltering heat of the May sun, to look for wildflowers or go ask to pick some from the untended gardens of our kind neighbors. And, when I had already branded the flower as "mine" no one should dare claim it, too, or that would have meant the start of a war I never would have backed out from.

However, here's the catch: of all the flowers that we were allowed to pick from our mother's and aunt's garden, there was one forbidden plant--- only to be admired from a specific distance. I even made it my personal rule to never touch it, lest I would be tempted to break the blooms from its stem. 😂 The blooms of those prized potted plants were never meant to be picked. They were just meant to bloom there snottily on their clay pots and to be shown off to neighbors and guests until the day all those tiny little pink and blue petals turn brown. As a 10 year old kid that time, with my 10 years' worth of childhood wisdom, there was only one thought that would cross my mind every time I was tempted to secretly pick the million flowers' bloom (Redundant, eh? I grew calling the whole plant "million flowers", that's why.) and would then dream of putting a tiny ribbonette around its delicate stem: WHAT A WASTE OF BEAUTIFUL BLOOMS! In my 10 year old mind, a flower in May, left to wither without being picked to be offered during the Flores de Mayo paghalad, was a waste of precious blooms.

So, imagine how awed I was when I found out that here in Nagasaki, the prized plants of my mother and aunt, are actually growing everywhere! And, I literally mean everywhere!

If truth be told, this was actually my 10-year old self's dream come true.

(Note: Hydrangeas are in full bloom around end of May to mid-June.)

Easter Anecdote

It's amazing how little acts of kindness can reaffirm our belief in the goodness of the human spirit despite the differences in culture, language, and history.

Before Easter ends, here is my Lenten anecdote:

Last Good Friday, as a yearly "panata", I went to a nearby church to do the Stations of the Cross. However, most of the Churches here in Japan are deemed, more of as historical artifacts than places of worship--- which is perfectly understandable when you take their history as a nation into consideration. Because of the barricade separating the entrance area of the Urakami Cathedral from the pews and the altar, I was already content standing in one corner near the cathedral's door. The case is, tourists are not allowed to cross the barricade and can only take photos of the interior of the church from the area near the door.

While I was quite unmindful of the several groups of tourists that entered, took photos, and went out of the cathedral, a Japanese church attendant walked towards me (he probably noticed that I stayed inside the church for more than the usual time that a typical tourist spends inside) and muttered something very quickly in Nihonggo. I thought that he was informing me that they were about to close the cathedral since it was already several minutes before 5 o'clock in the afternoon. When I was about to tell him that he should not worry because I was about to finish, I was deeply humbled right there and then--- the church attendant unhooked one of the hanging barricade from its metal stand and motioned me towards the pews. He was actually telling me that I can finish my prayers inside, which normally, is a restricted area for tourists.

I cannot be considered a very religious person if the measure would be following of certain church rites and activities, but right there and then, in a simple act of breaking protocols and in showing an act of kindness, my belief that God, Yahweh, Allah, the Divine Source, or whatever we may call Him depending on our beliefs, is actually present not in grand occasions but more so in simple, everyday acts which allow us to transcend the divisive force of differences in race, culture, language, and even religion.

Spring

I am in love with spring.

Although I have a deep attachment with autumn for the reason that it is nature's exact projection of my intuitive and melancholic temperament, I love how spring is the antithesis and therefore, becomes the balancing energy to my own.

Spring is so simple--- its colors and scents have all the appeals of freshness and almost childlike zest. I notice that as I move forward in life, I lean, more and more, towards choices which are uncomplicated. Life is short--- and, occasional what-am-I-here-for conversations would usually revolve around this idea until almost routine-like, we would always arrive at the same conclusion that moving forward in life with less baggage and complications is the way to go. Needless to say, I love spring for the simple reason that it is uncomplicated.

On a deeper account which is rooted to my innate melancholic temperament, I am in love with spring because it is nature's way of showing that after a dreary season, there are such things as extraordinarily beautiful as rebirth and healing.

Lava Covered Village (Unzen Preservation Park)

This part of the tour left me speechless, with moments of hair tingling thoughts in yet again, realizing that when nature strikes, we are almost always rendered helpless.

About 17 years ago, this preservation park was a peaceful, quite upscale village.

That was until Nature decided to remind the people if who was really in control.

When Mount Unzen Fugendake erupted on November 17, 1990 after about 178 years of being dormant, 40 people died, 3 were missing, 9 were injured, and 179 houses were damaged.

The government decided to preserve the area to remind the people that we are always, always at the mercy of nature and of Someone far more powerful than us.

FOR THE FUTURE. That was written on a white paper which was hanging among the origami wreaths in memory of those who died during the 1990 disaster. FOR THE FUTURE-----for me, these are very raw words which remind us that what we get from tragedies like this are not just scars and wounds of great loss but more than these, what we get are lessons on humility and resilience which are of great use in forging towards the future.

Unzen Jigoku

The Journey Through Hell.

That was the description of Unzen Jigoku in the tour pamphlet that was distributed before the scheduled date of our Intensive Japanese Class Education Tour. And, the moment we entered the premises of the place, I understood why it was described as such.

The pungent fume all over the place was so heady that I was first in doubt if I can last the approximately 20-minute walk through the sulfuric steamed pathway towards the highest point of the area.

Nakakasulasok. I only understood the intensity of that Filipino word in that place. A very natural thing as breathing became even a feat. Ikaw ba naman suminghot nang sangkatutak na sulfur kung hindi mo pakiki-usapan ang baga mo na huwag mag give-up sa paghinga.😣 But then, everything is about conditioning. And besides, I'm an expert in distracting my own self. Ahahahaha. So, when I noticed the almost surreal, billowing steam (Which, I remind you, is highly sulfuric.)--- making the surrounding appear like a misty dream and add to that the subtle bursts of colors of the onset of autumn in the background, I was back to my happy "lakwatsera" bubble and I swear I would have debated the person who described the place as "hell" right there and then had the sulfuric smell were non-existent.

***

Unzen Jigoku is a geothermal area in Shimabara, a volcanic city in the east of the Nagasaki Prefecture. The term "jigoku" literally means "hell", as attributed to the strong sulfuric smell all over the place which conjures the fearsome image of hell itself.

Aside from the walk through the billowing white, sulfuric steam, there are also "pasalubong" stores and restaurants around the area. However, Unzen is most famous for its public baths called "onsen" in Japanese. Do not confuse the two, ha? Ahahaha. Unzen is the place while onsen is the public bath in which you dip into a pool, totally naked, with strangers. You read it right. But there's no such event in this post. Nag-iipon pa ako ng lakas ng loob para sa " future onsen experience" ko. And, if ever that happens, I'll be writing about the experience here, minus the photos of course. Definitely without any photos. 😅

With my Indonesian friends, Rifdah and Vassadelah. 

With my fellow MEXT scholar, Ifoema.

At the end of the journey through hell is a piece of heaven----- fooooood!!!! 

The In-betweens

Today is moving out day in the International House.

All foreign students are only allowed to stay for a maximum of six months to give chance to the incoming students to enjoy the convenience of not having to worry about looking for a place to stay the moment they arrive in Japan.

The otherwise, typically quiet corridors were filled with noise very early this morning. If it were not for the fact that I am quite familiar with this noise--- the packing and unpacking, the screeching of tapes being teared and of things being moved--- I would have been doubly astounded by the realization that as one moves forward in life, he/she does not actually become immuned to the pang of emotions everytime change is about to come, most especially if that change entails mobility and constancy, or in a concept that is more concrete to all of us, of leaving and of being left.

I believe that we all move from one monotony to another. And, in between these monotonies are spontaneous moments which often require us to deviate from our routines and our comfort zones. And, no matter how we all love the thrill and the excitement of these spontaneous in-betweens, we would always long for what is comfortable and what is familiar. Or, that might be true for me at least. Personally, as I age, I find it more and more difficult to let go of one monotony and embrace another. Or more appropriately, it's the in-betweens that I dread. This is the reason why this scholarship made me happy and frightened at the same time. This was the reason why I was bawling like an eight year old kid the day I left for Japan, and even at the very last minute in the airport, I was still debating whether to go or not.

"But, this is not your first time. You left for several times already," Sendico reminded me. This is the irony of change and of mobility, of leaving and of being left behind---- you never get used to it, you just never. The more you go through these in-betweens the more it gets difficult because you develop a firmer grasp and understanding of yes, the glory of the thrill, but oftentimes, the loneliness of adapting.

The loneliness of adapting, can be totally surreal. I can make a long list of what I have to learn and unlearn, including the adjustments that I have to make, add to that the crying episodes in between--- half of them may be rightfully blamed to hormones and half of them, well,  due to nostalgia of the monotony which I left. But when I talk about the surreality of the loneliness of adapting, one picture is very clear in my memory---- it was during my first night in the International House and I found out that my laptop couldn't connect to the internet via LAN and, there were no more shops that were open where I could purchase a router. I had to inform the people back home that I arrived safely and there was no other way but to settle with a long distance call via a payphone in the empty lounge of the dormitory. There I was, like I was in an old sad movie about immigrants, scrambling for their coins just to stretch the time of conversation with those on the other end. And, when all the change have been spent, the beeping, mechanical sound from the phone adds to the surreality of it all by reverberating in the empty hall, making it one of the saddest sounds ever created. And then, silence.

Yet, it gets better.

Yes, it does get better. New routines are established, although once in a while, I'd still get a pang of emotions pertaining to adapting. I have always been good at adapting. I don't have any special skills and abilities but I am always proud of the fact that one  can put me anywhere and I'll adapt, thrive even.

So, this morning, the otherwise eternal silence of the whole International House was broken by noise of all sorts, a noise I'm quite familiar with--- the noise of the in-between. So this explains the unusual stab of nostalgia I felt when people in our floor (which included me) started going from one room to another to say our goodbyes while some chatted for a while as if we were good old friends----unusual because on normal days, we would only exchange hellos or nods on the corridors and only those. However, despite the fact that I don't know these people personally as much as they don't know me, but the knowledge of their quiet presence in the other rooms had been my comfort and monotony in the past six months. And, from the atmosphere awhile ago, I sensed that it had been theirs as well.

So, this deviation was a sign of the start of another brief in-between, and although I no longer care that much for these episodes, there is comfort in knowing what is next after this brief interlude.

The Heart Thrives

All throughout history, leaving and being left, has been laced with fancy poetry and romantic narratives--- of ladies waiting on the shore for years and of men sailing away through the storm, of old men reading in solitude in front of warm fireplaces while partly remembering distant pasts that still bring little jolts of pain in their weary hearts, and of women dreamily thinking of the what-could-have-beens had they not ran away from their first loves.

But the truth is this: there is no poetry or romantic narratives in leaving and in being left. There is no glory, no dreamy flairs. The truth is, you learn to breathe with that heaviness in your chest until your heart becomes conditioned, until it gains strength from the excercise. And, time will come when it wouldn't be too difficult to breathe, you wouldnt even remember how it felt in the first place.

Another truth is, new people will come, not necessarily to replace the ones who left, but they will definitely bring a new edge, a new angle to life. And, when that time comes, you know that whether or not they'll choose to stay or to leave, whether or not life decides for them to grow roots or to grow wings, you will always manage to go through all of it.

The whole truth is, that heart, that heart is made from fine and strong stock. With all of life's changes and inconsistencies, that heart always be more than just fine. It will thrive.