Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
THE CREEP OF PALAWAN
I cannot cast the past into oblivion. It made me. It shaped my thinking, hardened and softened my mind in equal measure. It is the sum of who I became. And so I will not forget Palawan—nor the lepers, properly called Hansenites, whom I served there.
I will not forget the journey: the violent South China Sea, its waves battering our small boat, nearly hurling us against jagged rocks and sea caves carved by centuries of water and coral. I will not forget the impossible beauty beneath—schools of fish moving in perfect synchrony, their colors flashing like living mosaics, responding to the drums of wind and wave. Sea snakes striped like warnings. Birds mating midair. Crocodiles yawning along muddy banks, tears glistening in their ancient eyes. Swiftlet nests hidden in cave walls. Millions of bats erupting into the night sky like smoke.
I will not forget the roads—narrow, cliff-hugging, unforgiving—where our van crept forward, the jungle pressing close, breathing, alive with the music of insects and unseen creatures. I stooped to examine sea cucumbers and starfish; I lifted my eyes to watch monkeys torn apart by eagles. I remember my solitude, purple and heavy, beneath century-old trees, beside cold waterfalls and steaming hot springs.
I lived in an isolated sanitarium, deep in a forest, on an island stretched like an arm among the Philippines’ seven thousand islands. The water there was as blue as the sky—so bright it seemed unreal. At night, the stars hung low, multiplying themselves in the sea until the moon rose full and silver, communing with the water. Only at dawn did the sun intervene, separating sea from sky once more.
I lived there. I served there.
My work was to care for lepers in a small hospital and scattered cottages where medicine was scarce and supplies arrived by air drops—there were no runways. We lived far from the world.
The night that returns to me now was one of countless brownouts. Electricity failures were common then. I carried a candle as I assisted the Sisters of Mary in the morgue. They were preparing the body of Guillermo Makalusong, who had died on Christmas Eve.
With bare hands—our gloves long depleted—the Sisters washed his body using sulfur soap. Blood was swept toward the metal bed’s gutter, dripping steadily into a bucket below. Guillermo had stabbed himself in the neck five times. He was drunk when he killed himself.
“Hurry up, Sisters,” I said, impatient. “I still have exams to grade.”
I held two roles at the sanitarium: assistant to the nuns and clinical instructor to nursing students on affiliation from Manila. Our hands were always full. There were the living to tend to—and the dead to prepare and ship home.
We begged the world for help. Letters went everywhere. We taught patients vocational skills—making stuffed dolls, ceramic figurines, assembling hammers and mallets—anything we could sell. Still, money was always short.
Lepers, after all, were not machines. They needed food, shelter, clothing, water—beyond medicine. They fell in love. And being Catholic, they were denied contraception or abortion. Babies were born. More mouths to feed. More cribs to build. More caregivers to hire.
We took infants from their mothers for the first years of life. There was no sentimentality about it. Infants had no immunity. We could not risk them. We ignored the parents’ cries.
I also welcomed young nursing students—fresh from Manila, reluctant and resentful.
“We’re only here because it’s required,” they told me openly. “We hate it.”
I apologized for the conditions. I thanked them repeatedly for being there. I lectured anyway.
“Leprosy—Hansen’s disease—is found only in humans,” I began. “It is caused by Mycobacterium leprae. It is treatable with combination therapy: Rifampicin, Dapsone, and Clofazimine.”
While I spoke, one student filed her nails. Another reapplied lipstick. A third wrote a love letter.
After six months, I broke.
I was exhausted by their contempt—for the patients, for the work, for the dignity of care. I decided to teach them what nursing truly meant.
First, I informed their department heads that I was raising passing scores. Failures would repeat the course.
Second, clinical evaluations would include patient feedback.
Third, they would learn everything—how food was cooked and served, how autopsies were done, how supplies were inventoried, how skills were taught, how babies were cared for.
They called me names. Students with powerful parents withdrew using political pressure. Others were pulled out after threats to withdraw donations.
Those who remained—the powerless—called me The Creep of Palawan.
The administration wanted to fire me.
I told them plainly: in healthcare, you don’t choose your patients. Stroke, leprosy, AIDS—it doesn’t matter. If you avoid suffering because it’s inconvenient, you have no business in medicine.
What saved me was this: the remaining students studied harder. Patients began to voice satisfaction. The administration hesitated.
These thoughts followed me as I left the morgue, candle still burning. The nuns covered Guillermo’s body with a white sheet. In two days, he would be shipped home.
Home.
Where had I first met Guillermo?
Legazpi.
I remembered Mayon Volcano’s perfect cone rising behind a city still scarred by eruption—its Catholic belfry standing alone amid ruins.
We came for Guillermo at midnight. The safest hour. No neighbors watching.
He denied his identity. Tried to flee. Jumped from a window.
We caught him.
“Get away from me!” he screamed.
Dr. Montes was firm.
“Guillermo, it’s illegal to remain in the community with active leprosy. You’re endangering your family.”
His wife shook in a corner, clutching their children.
He cursed us.
“You sons of bitches!”
“It’s temporary,” Dr. Montes said calmly. “Treatment takes months. At most two years.”
I echoed him, eager to impress.
“You’ll be home soon.”
He wasn’t.
The disease worsened. Side effects ravaged him. His skin darkened. Lesions erupted. Steroids bloated his face. Nerves died. Fingers clawed. Feet numbed.
He was cured—but destroyed.
When he returned home, his children fled. His wife had moved on.
He came back to us drunk and broken.
He descended through the cottages—Acute. Sub-acute. Chronic.
Finally, Cottage D.
The Desperados.
Locked doors. Restraints.
I visited him.
“What more do you want, Guillermo?” I demanded.
“I want to go home.”
I stared at him.
Out of pity—or loneliness—I returned. I drank with them. Bought them music. Videos. Beer.
The nuns warned me.
“You’re crossing a line.”
The students left.
I insisted: they were still human.
Then came the autopsy.
Guillermo’s body lay on the table. The students watched, eager for spectacle.
The Y-incision was made.
And then—
The corpse moved.
Guillermo sat up.
Grinning.
Holding his organs.
“Home,” he whispered.
He collapsed.
Pandemonium erupted.
The students screamed. The Sisters ran. The monks prayed.
They blamed me.
They called me the Devil.
I did not defend myself.
I was expelled from Palawan.
The memoir ended there.
Reality returned as Lazaro’s foot struck the creaking stairs of the Dade Rest tunnel.
A door opened.
A man lay on a bed.
Lazaro sat beside him.
The man whispered,
“Hello. I’m Bill. I’m dying of AIDS.”
It was Guillermo Makalusong again.
The same soul.
A different face.
2026-01-21 14:13:09
visions
Today is another day, and I thank God for the growing quiet in my life. I can feel it deepening—not just as the absence of noise, but as a presence of rest. I have not only curtailed my social media use; I have also lost the level of interest I once had in it. In return, I have gained something far more precious: genuine rest and better sleep. What remains for me now is the careful and faithful use of my daily free time—to nurture the hobbies and gifts the Lord has entrusted to me. I am not fully there yet, but I am getting closer, despite the occasional and inevitable real-life distractions.
Lately, I have been working on two pieces of writing—both expressions of the gifts I believe were given to me. One is a story about the mountains I once climbed; the other is a series of small, anecdotal reflections on my day-to-day workouts. These are not the kinds of works that sell or attract attention. Yet I hold onto the hope that if even one person encounters them, that person might experience life a little more deeply—much like how a reader briefly lives another life through a book.
There is a loneliness in my daily routine, but no lonelier than life lived online. Social media, after all, offers the illusion of company—large crowds, endless chatter—yet most of it is superficial. It creates the feeling of not being alone, even though one is surrounded only by a virtual presence. In contrast, my solitude is quiet, honest, and unembellished.
This path is my personal choice. I have chosen to tour life quietly, often alone, with the only meaningful feedback coming from the Lord. I am not comfortable turning my life into a public display—a reality show shared with countless strangers who do not need to know the details of my days. Doing so makes me anxious and robs me of sleep. I know this attitude is my own; others may thrive on sharing, and rightly so, especially if it advances a career or provides financial support.
I walk quietly in the park, covering my usual distance—often more than 11,000 steps. Along the way, I encounter fellow walkers and hikers. We exchange brief nods or gestures, but we mostly guard our solitude. We are not there for conversation; we are there for nature. And for me, more specifically, I am there for God—for His beauty, His order, His quiet reassurance.
Retirement brings with it a subtle danger: the temptation to abandon real life in favor of a virtual one. High technology combined with idle time can quietly pull a person away from reality. When I was still working, my life was naturally anchored to the real world. I woke up, drove to work, and spent my days with people as they truly were. There was structure, urgency, and physical presence. There was little room—and no need—for social media.
That remains true for many people today, especially those whose lives are filled with tangible responsibilities: work, family, conversations that still happen face-to-face, much like in earlier times. In my town, men young and old gather to drink, joke, sing karaoke, and simply be together. Vacationers travel, explore unfamiliar places, and lose themselves in ocean waves under the sun. Others work in the digital world itself—creating documentaries and educational content that are thoughtful, grounded, and meaningful.
Even I have recently discovered travel documentaries that speak to my soul—stories of nature, mountains, and people living far from modern civilization, surviving and thriving on the simple blessings of the earth. I would like to believe that most people are still firmly embedded in real life.
Yet there are people like me—those at risk of falling into the vacuum of unreality. Living alone with abundant free time makes that risk very real. There was a period when I was consumed by social media, living as though a camera were always watching me. I felt compelled to share everything, as if each moment carried great importance. I assumed—incorrectly—that what interested me must interest others.
I spent time learning video recording and editing, building confidence in speaking after years of believing my voice sounded strange or inadequate. Yet I ended up living a significant portion of my life in a digital and virtual space. Instead of sleeping, I scrolled. Instead of writing—a gift I have carried since childhood—I checked views, comments, and likes. Instead of reading or programming, I imagined scenarios to post and share. These habits never existed when I was still working. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my original goals for retirement.
Only recently have I come to understand the true nature of the internet—and especially social media. Used correctly, it can be a healthy distraction, a brief mental rest. Used excessively, it can be deadly, much like fentanyl. The difference lies entirely in how it is used.
Through meditation and the gentle guidance of the Holy Spirit, I was led to this realization. As I gradually stepped away, I redirected myself toward what I originally intended for retirement: storytelling, writing, reading, and computer programming. I am now focusing on purpose-driven tasks rather than performance. I am moving away from a curated life and returning to the reality of living. I meditate, exercise, garden, and rest. My attention still wanders at times, but mindfulness gently calls it back.
I do not completely dismiss the usefulness of social media. Just yesterday, my peace was shaken by an unexpected sewage problem—a situation that could easily spiral into stress. Watching YouTube and scrolling briefly helped me calm down through escapism. But I kept reminding myself to return to reality as soon as possible, because reality—imperfect as it is—is what keeps me grounded and alive.
The phrase artificial intelligence is fitting. Much of digital and virtual life is artificial and disruptive to the body and mind. I see its effects clearly in the political world. Donald Trump, for example, appears to inhabit a reality of his own making—immersed in a digital echo chamber, posting impulsively, reacting without reflection, demanding recognition of an imagined greatness. The underlying question seems to be: Why can’t everyone see what I see? This disconnection from reality is something I fear and actively resist in myself.
So I return, again and again, to the solutions I discovered earlier in retirement—solutions I truly believe were Spirit-led. I spend time with my gifts. I write. I read. I contemplate reality. I sit in my favorite chair, typing on my laptop between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. I resist the fantasy of admiration and acclaim. It is pleasant to imagine, briefly, but it belongs to the realm of illusion.
At my age, shaped by the culture I grew up in and my tendency to write long, reflective pieces in an era of shrinking attention spans, I accept that few may ever read what I write. And that is all right. My fulfillment does not depend on an audience. It rests in my ability to express myself honestly.
To still think, still write, still reflect—that alone is something to be grateful for. My joy is in self-expression. My gratitude is in the ability to pause, to summarize my life, and to refrain from acting impulsively without purpose—something I have struggled with most of my life.
There is deep value in experiencing life fully and physically: being present in the world, in nature, in humanity. Watching a new leaf unfurl. Seeing a cutting sprout fresh buds. Walking through a garden that resembles the jungles I once loved to disappear into.
And here is the best part: I am sitting by my window as the morning sun pours through the glass, illuminating my baby philodendrons, pothos, and fast-growing elephant ears. I have just called a plumber to address yet another backup in the bathroom. I watched a documentary about the pitfalls of buying a condo in the Philippines. Jim has left for work. I am alone now—truly alone—and enjoying the quiet. I am choosing not to dwell on plumbing stress. Instead, I am writing this reflection.
How, in moments like this, could I possibly complain?
2026-01-21 13:51:25
blog
Visions of St Lazarus Chapter 7
THE CREEP OF PALAWAN
I cannot cast the past into oblivion. It made me. It shaped my thinking, hardened and softened my mind in equal measure. It is the sum of who I became. And so I will not forget Palawan—nor the lepers, properly called Hansenites, whom I served there.
I will not forget the journey: the violent South China Sea, its waves battering our small boat, nearly hurling us against jagged rocks and sea caves carved by centuries of water and coral. I will not forget the impossible beauty beneath—schools of fish moving in perfect synchrony, their colors flashing like living mosaics, responding to the drums of wind and wave. Sea snakes striped like warnings. Birds mating midair. Crocodiles yawning along muddy banks, tears glistening in their ancient eyes. Swiftlet nests hidden in cave walls. Millions of bats erupting into the night sky like smoke.
I will not forget the roads—narrow, cliff-hugging, unforgiving—where our van crept forward, the jungle pressing close, breathing, alive with the music of insects and unseen creatures. I stooped to examine sea cucumbers and starfish; I lifted my eyes to watch monkeys torn apart by eagles. I remember my solitude, purple and heavy, beneath century-old trees, beside cold waterfalls and steaming hot springs.
I lived in an isolated sanitarium, deep in a forest, on an island stretched like an arm among the Philippines’ seven thousand islands. The water there was as blue as the sky—so bright it seemed unreal. At night, the stars hung low, multiplying themselves in the sea until the moon rose full and silver, communing with the water. Only at dawn did the sun intervene, separating sea from sky once more.
I lived there. I served there.
My work was to care for lepers in a small hospital and scattered cottages where medicine was scarce and supplies arrived by air drops—there were no runways. We lived far from the world.
The night that returns to me now was one of countless brownouts. Electricity failures were common then. I carried a candle as I assisted the Sisters of Mary in the morgue. They were preparing the body of Guillermo Makalusong, who had died on Christmas Eve.
With bare hands—our gloves long depleted—the Sisters washed his body using sulfur soap. Blood was swept toward the metal bed’s gutter, dripping steadily into a bucket below. Guillermo had stabbed himself in the neck five times. He was drunk when he killed himself.
“Hurry up, Sisters,” I said, impatient. “I still have exams to grade.”
I held two roles at the sanitarium: assistant to the nuns and clinical instructor to nursing students on affiliation from Manila. Our hands were always full. There were the living to tend to—and the dead to prepare and ship home.
We begged the world for help. Letters went everywhere. We taught patients vocational skills—making stuffed dolls, ceramic figurines, assembling hammers and mallets—anything we could sell. Still, money was always short.
Lepers, after all, were not machines. They needed food, shelter, clothing, water—beyond medicine. They fell in love. And being Catholic, they were denied contraception or abortion. Babies were born. More mouths to feed. More cribs to build. More caregivers to hire.
We took infants from their mothers for the first years of life. There was no sentimentality about it. Infants had no immunity. We could not risk them. We ignored the parents’ cries.
I also welcomed young nursing students—fresh from Manila, reluctant and resentful.
“We’re only here because it’s required,” they told me openly. “We hate it.”
I apologized for the conditions. I thanked them repeatedly for being there. I lectured anyway.
“Leprosy—Hansen’s disease—is found only in humans,” I began. “It is caused by Mycobacterium leprae. It is treatable with combination therapy: Rifampicin, Dapsone, and Clofazimine.”
While I spoke, one student filed her nails. Another reapplied lipstick. A third wrote a love letter.
After six months, I broke.
I was exhausted by their contempt—for the patients, for the work, for the dignity of care. I decided to teach them what nursing truly meant.
First, I informed their department heads that I was raising passing scores. Failures would repeat the course.
Second, clinical evaluations would include patient feedback.
Third, they would learn everything—how food was cooked and served, how autopsies were done, how supplies were inventoried, how skills were taught, how babies were cared for.
They called me names. Students with powerful parents withdrew using political pressure. Others were pulled out after threats to withdraw donations.
Those who remained—the powerless—called me The Creep of Palawan.
The administration wanted to fire me.
I told them plainly: in healthcare, you don’t choose your patients. Stroke, leprosy, AIDS—it doesn’t matter. If you avoid suffering because it’s inconvenient, you have no business in medicine.
What saved me was this: the remaining students studied harder. Patients began to voice satisfaction. The administration hesitated.
These thoughts followed me as I left the morgue, candle still burning. The nuns covered Guillermo’s body with a white sheet. In two days, he would be shipped home.
Home.
Where had I first met Guillermo?
Legazpi.
I remembered Mayon Volcano’s perfect cone rising behind a city still scarred by eruption—its Catholic belfry standing alone amid ruins.
We came for Guillermo at midnight. The safest hour. No neighbors watching.
He denied his identity. Tried to flee. Jumped from a window.
We caught him.
“Get away from me!” he screamed.
Dr. Montes was firm.
“Guillermo, it’s illegal to remain in the community with active leprosy. You’re endangering your family.”
His wife shook in a corner, clutching their children.
He cursed us.
“You sons of bitches!”
“It’s temporary,” Dr. Montes said calmly. “Treatment takes months. At most two years.”
I echoed him, eager to impress.
“You’ll be home soon.”
He wasn’t.
The disease worsened. Side effects ravaged him. His skin darkened. Lesions erupted. Steroids bloated his face. Nerves died. Fingers clawed. Feet numbed.
He was cured—but destroyed.
When he returned home, his children fled. His wife had moved on.
He came back to us drunk and broken.
He descended through the cottages—Acute. Sub-acute. Chronic.
Finally, Cottage D.
The Desperados.
Locked doors. Restraints.
I visited him.
“What more do you want, Guillermo?” I demanded.
“I want to go home.”
I stared at him.
Out of pity—or loneliness—I returned. I drank with them. Bought them music. Videos. Beer.
The nuns warned me.
“You’re crossing a line.”
The students left.
I insisted: they were still human.
Then came the autopsy.
Guillermo’s body lay on the table. The students watched, eager for spectacle.
The Y-incision was made.
And then—
The corpse moved.
Guillermo sat up.
Grinning.
Holding his organs.
“Home,” he whispered.
He collapsed.
Pandemonium erupted.
The students screamed. The Sisters ran. The monks prayed.
They blamed me.
They called me the Devil.
I did not defend myself.
I was expelled from Palawan.
The memoir ended there.
Reality returned as Lazaro’s foot struck the creaking stairs of the Dade Rest tunnel.
A door opened.
A man lay on a bed.
Lazaro sat beside him.
The man whispered,
“Hello. I’m Bill. I’m dying of AIDS.”
It was Guillermo Makalusong again.
The same soul.
A different face.
2026-01-21 14:13:09
visions
Meditation Today 1-21-26
Today is another day, and I thank God for the growing quiet in my life. I can feel it deepening—not just as the absence of noise, but as a presence of rest. I have not only curtailed my social media use; I have also lost the level of interest I once had in it. In return, I have gained something far more precious: genuine rest and better sleep. What remains for me now is the careful and faithful use of my daily free time—to nurture the hobbies and gifts the Lord has entrusted to me. I am not fully there yet, but I am getting closer, despite the occasional and inevitable real-life distractions.
Lately, I have been working on two pieces of writing—both expressions of the gifts I believe were given to me. One is a story about the mountains I once climbed; the other is a series of small, anecdotal reflections on my day-to-day workouts. These are not the kinds of works that sell or attract attention. Yet I hold onto the hope that if even one person encounters them, that person might experience life a little more deeply—much like how a reader briefly lives another life through a book.
There is a loneliness in my daily routine, but no lonelier than life lived online. Social media, after all, offers the illusion of company—large crowds, endless chatter—yet most of it is superficial. It creates the feeling of not being alone, even though one is surrounded only by a virtual presence. In contrast, my solitude is quiet, honest, and unembellished.
This path is my personal choice. I have chosen to tour life quietly, often alone, with the only meaningful feedback coming from the Lord. I am not comfortable turning my life into a public display—a reality show shared with countless strangers who do not need to know the details of my days. Doing so makes me anxious and robs me of sleep. I know this attitude is my own; others may thrive on sharing, and rightly so, especially if it advances a career or provides financial support.
I walk quietly in the park, covering my usual distance—often more than 11,000 steps. Along the way, I encounter fellow walkers and hikers. We exchange brief nods or gestures, but we mostly guard our solitude. We are not there for conversation; we are there for nature. And for me, more specifically, I am there for God—for His beauty, His order, His quiet reassurance.
Retirement brings with it a subtle danger: the temptation to abandon real life in favor of a virtual one. High technology combined with idle time can quietly pull a person away from reality. When I was still working, my life was naturally anchored to the real world. I woke up, drove to work, and spent my days with people as they truly were. There was structure, urgency, and physical presence. There was little room—and no need—for social media.
That remains true for many people today, especially those whose lives are filled with tangible responsibilities: work, family, conversations that still happen face-to-face, much like in earlier times. In my town, men young and old gather to drink, joke, sing karaoke, and simply be together. Vacationers travel, explore unfamiliar places, and lose themselves in ocean waves under the sun. Others work in the digital world itself—creating documentaries and educational content that are thoughtful, grounded, and meaningful.
Even I have recently discovered travel documentaries that speak to my soul—stories of nature, mountains, and people living far from modern civilization, surviving and thriving on the simple blessings of the earth. I would like to believe that most people are still firmly embedded in real life.
Yet there are people like me—those at risk of falling into the vacuum of unreality. Living alone with abundant free time makes that risk very real. There was a period when I was consumed by social media, living as though a camera were always watching me. I felt compelled to share everything, as if each moment carried great importance. I assumed—incorrectly—that what interested me must interest others.
I spent time learning video recording and editing, building confidence in speaking after years of believing my voice sounded strange or inadequate. Yet I ended up living a significant portion of my life in a digital and virtual space. Instead of sleeping, I scrolled. Instead of writing—a gift I have carried since childhood—I checked views, comments, and likes. Instead of reading or programming, I imagined scenarios to post and share. These habits never existed when I was still working. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my original goals for retirement.
Only recently have I come to understand the true nature of the internet—and especially social media. Used correctly, it can be a healthy distraction, a brief mental rest. Used excessively, it can be deadly, much like fentanyl. The difference lies entirely in how it is used.
Through meditation and the gentle guidance of the Holy Spirit, I was led to this realization. As I gradually stepped away, I redirected myself toward what I originally intended for retirement: storytelling, writing, reading, and computer programming. I am now focusing on purpose-driven tasks rather than performance. I am moving away from a curated life and returning to the reality of living. I meditate, exercise, garden, and rest. My attention still wanders at times, but mindfulness gently calls it back.
I do not completely dismiss the usefulness of social media. Just yesterday, my peace was shaken by an unexpected sewage problem—a situation that could easily spiral into stress. Watching YouTube and scrolling briefly helped me calm down through escapism. But I kept reminding myself to return to reality as soon as possible, because reality—imperfect as it is—is what keeps me grounded and alive.
The phrase artificial intelligence is fitting. Much of digital and virtual life is artificial and disruptive to the body and mind. I see its effects clearly in the political world. Donald Trump, for example, appears to inhabit a reality of his own making—immersed in a digital echo chamber, posting impulsively, reacting without reflection, demanding recognition of an imagined greatness. The underlying question seems to be: Why can’t everyone see what I see? This disconnection from reality is something I fear and actively resist in myself.
So I return, again and again, to the solutions I discovered earlier in retirement—solutions I truly believe were Spirit-led. I spend time with my gifts. I write. I read. I contemplate reality. I sit in my favorite chair, typing on my laptop between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. I resist the fantasy of admiration and acclaim. It is pleasant to imagine, briefly, but it belongs to the realm of illusion.
At my age, shaped by the culture I grew up in and my tendency to write long, reflective pieces in an era of shrinking attention spans, I accept that few may ever read what I write. And that is all right. My fulfillment does not depend on an audience. It rests in my ability to express myself honestly.
To still think, still write, still reflect—that alone is something to be grateful for. My joy is in self-expression. My gratitude is in the ability to pause, to summarize my life, and to refrain from acting impulsively without purpose—something I have struggled with most of my life.
There is deep value in experiencing life fully and physically: being present in the world, in nature, in humanity. Watching a new leaf unfurl. Seeing a cutting sprout fresh buds. Walking through a garden that resembles the jungles I once loved to disappear into.
And here is the best part: I am sitting by my window as the morning sun pours through the glass, illuminating my baby philodendrons, pothos, and fast-growing elephant ears. I have just called a plumber to address yet another backup in the bathroom. I watched a documentary about the pitfalls of buying a condo in the Philippines. Jim has left for work. I am alone now—truly alone—and enjoying the quiet. I am choosing not to dwell on plumbing stress. Instead, I am writing this reflection.
How, in moments like this, could I possibly complain?
2026-01-21 13:51:25
blog