Popong 20 / Life Ordinary

1 Samuel 16:1
Samuel Anoints David
16 The Lord said to Samuel, “How long will you mourn for Saul, since I have rejected him as king over Israel? Fill your horn with oil and be on your way; I am sending you to Jesse of Bethlehem. I have chosen one of his sons to be king.”
1 Samuel 16:6-13
6 When they arrived, Samuel saw Eliab and thought, “Surely the Lord’s anointed stands here before Him.”
7 But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
8 Then Jesse called Abinadab and had him pass in front of Samuel. But Samuel said, “The Lord has not chosen this one either.”
9 Jesse then had Shammah pass by, but Samuel said, “Nor has the Lord chosen this one.”
10 Jesse had seven of his sons pass before Samuel, but Samuel said to him, “The Lord has not chosen these.”
11 So he asked Jesse, “Are these all the sons you have?”
“There is still the youngest,” Jesse answered. “He is tending the sheep.”
Samuel said, “Send for him; we will not sit down until he arrives.”
12 So he sent for him and had him brought in. He was glowing with health, had a fine appearance, and was handsome. Then the Lord said, “Rise and anoint him; this is the one.”
13 So Samuel took the horn of oil and anointed him in the presence of his brothers, and from that day on, the Spirit of the Lord came powerfully upon David. Then Samuel went to Ramah.
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I love this passage—ah, the drama! The Lord does not depend on outward appearances, though David was indeed handsome. Instead, He looks at the heart, and it was David’s heart that set him apart.
Yet despite this divine selection, David faced crises, sins, and pain throughout his reign. This reminds us that life will never be magical or a bed of roses. True life is not a virtual experience; its realness is far from the ideal.
I have a good life. I am healthy, I have some financial security with my fixed income and extra work hours, and for now, no major issues or expenses are looming over me. Yet, I struggle. This morning, I checked my stock portfolio and started buying, only to be limited by the 9 AM trading start time. Then I got distracted by a sleek yet inexpensive Casio watch—about to buy another one simply for its design and affordability, despite already owning seven or eight watches, some of which I barely wear.
It occurred to me: having more than enough only fuels the desire to have even more. I had plenty of justifications—the watch was cheap, it would bring me pleasure, it was unique—but I had said the same things about my previous purchases. This is where the wisdom of the Holy Spirit becomes crucial: the wisdom to discern when something is vain and unnecessary, when something indulges the very human folly I criticized just yesterday. The folly of relying on material things for joy—a fleeting joy, an unnecessary one.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on mankind’s relentless quest for more. Material possessions never truly satisfy; they may temporarily fill a void, but that void only expands. It’s like packing a tooth cavity—if the infection remains, the filling won’t heal it and may even worsen the problem.
That’s why I am grateful for the time I had yesterday to read. My current book is about Daniel Suelo, a man who lives without money, in harmony with nature, and seemingly content. His biography allows me to experience his life vicariously. I admire people like him, those who defy society’s expectations—not in a revolutionary or destructive way, but simply by choosing a different path.
It was Suelo I thought of while browsing for that Casio watch. I already own five stylish watches. Realizing this, I abruptly stopped my search, much like how I disengage from social media when I sense its pull into a mindless abyss.
Ah, the lion’s den. It’s been a while since I used that term. I once associated it with the dark spaces of my past—the places that enabled sin. Thankfully, those have largely vanished from my life. But the den remains, now inhabited by different desires: material possessions, social media, investment gains. Yet, unlike before, I can resist these temptations. The pull is not as strong. I can turn away.
Yesterday, I walked five miles in the morning—returning to my old routine. Later, I picked up books I had finished reading, all about AI and technology, and added two more to my reading list.
On my way home, I passed by the park and then stopped at Publix for groceries. I was relieved to find that the homeless people who often approach me for money were absent. For a moment, I considered returning to that park in the afternoons. Its waterways are spectacular. But my relief was short-lived. Though Chris and the others were nowhere to be seen, I eventually noticed Jeff slumped over, his hood pulled low—clearly high. The woman with him, another regular, sat against the wooden fence, eyes closed but visibly intoxicated. They are still there, and they will likely never leave. This park is their home until something—miraculous or tragic—changes their fate.
Perhaps the Lord is sending me a message: Stay put in my usual walking park (JPP), where I can find peace. Or maybe, it’s time to seek new places, places where addicted homeless peoples don’t cast a constant shadow. Not necessarily upscale communities, but different people. I am not looking for the wealthy—I seek those who are homeless by choice, like Daniel Suelo or Mark Boyle, those who embrace simplicity and divine solitude. I don’t aspire to be a radical, nor do I wish to live like a Beat poet. I simply long for solitude and the pursuit of deeper thoughts.
I once desired to be a Catholic monk, but life had other plans—family responsibilities, my own nature, and worldly obligations led me down a different road. For decades, I resisted my love for contemplation, study, and philosophy. Instead, I forced myself into a life of work and service, pretending to enjoy the roles assigned to me. But now, in retirement, I have a second chance.
I am trying to reclaim what was lost. I do this by immersing myself in the biographies and philosophies of those who lived the life I once dreamed of. Through their words, I experience their solitude, their insights, their freedom.
I can no longer live the solitary and adventurous life they had. Age has tethered me, and my survival now depends on careful decisions. But I can still expand my mind, nurture my thoughts, and seek wisdom in the realm of the spirit. The physical pursuit may be limited, but my soul is still free. And that, in the end, is what truly matters.
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This is what happens when money becomes the god of a society. When wealth is the driving force, everything—regardless of its nature or necessity—must be managed based on profit, even when it goes beyond reason. I, too, was once tempted by money until I realized its futility—how it fuels vanity and draws me closer to sin. At one point, I had a surplus of income, and when that happened, it became much easier to spend excessively. What did I spend on? Useless luxuries. Worse, I paid for friendships and artificial love, enabled people's vices and addictions, and exposed myself to dangers and extreme stress. All because I had more money than I truly needed.
This is what is happening in the world today. A few have built mountains of gold beyond necessity, yet they cannot even touch it for fear of erosion and collapse. Their hearts and minds are consumed with maintaining or expanding their wealth.
"Too big to fail" is often their mantra. When a society becomes overly dependent on material wealth—when values are equated with riches, power, and fame, and personal worth is measured solely by these things—people inevitably lose sight of what truly matters.
We are composed of two parts: the material and the spiritual. As a human being, I cannot neglect one in favor of the other. Both must be nourished to experience true joy and fulfillment. This is where I stand today. I have enough resources to live comfortably, and even if I have more than I need, I choose not to be consumed by it. Instead, I devote myself to other aspects of life. I consider myself blessed by God in this regard. With the right mindset, I can spend my early mornings in contemplation and meditation, which fills my soul with immense harmony. This spiritual practice is the primary nourishment for my soul—the driving force of my body.
After meditation, I follow up with a walk or jog in the park. Doing this alone, free from distractions, allows me to witness the Lord’s presence in all of His creation while also keeping my body healthy and stable, a fitting vessel for my soul.
I wish this material-driven world could return to its basic and fundamental spirituality. True spirituality is the most fulfilling experience, offering joy and contentment. Yet, the world has nearly erased the significance of the spirit and of God, denying their existence, relying instead on the false gods of money and randomness.
2025-02-07 13:34:54
popong
Four Students 3

Mod's character is a constant source of amusement, a peculiar blend of imagination and solitude. He is an inveterate daydreamer, a master at weaving his own reality. His isolation has not only taught him to create his own world but also allowed him to inhabit it fully. He talks to himself, slipping effortlessly into different roles. If he wishes to converse with the Pope, he does not need an audience; he simply assumes the Pope's role. Alone in his room, he gazes into the mirror, raises his hand in solemn blessing, then closes his eyes, makes the sign of the cross, and feels divinely consecrated. If music drifts through the air, his imagination transforms him into a dancer; if he watches a sports event, he becomes the champion; if he loses himself in a movie, he is the undisputed hero. Sometimes, he stands up just to announce to himself, "I am standing now." Then he walks, declaring, "I am walking now." In his mind, he is always engaged in vibrant conversations—an orator in his own silent, self-constructed world.
On this particular morning, as on many others, Mod leads the water buffalo to the damp grasslands for feeding. This is Cuenca—a town so quiet and unremarkable that it barely registers on the map, except during the Lenten season when pilgrims flock to climb Mount Makulot for the annual reenactment of Calvary. In Cuenca, celebrations are not centered around Christmas or New Year's Eve; instead, the town awakens during Holy Week, particularly on Good Friday. It is then that shops reopen, roads are swept clean, and mountain trails are revived for the penitents. On this day, barefooted devotees line up with flickering candles, whispering prayers that seem to have been withheld all year, waiting for this sacred moment. Children are hushed by elders, their laughter stifled so as not to disturb the solemn procession of faith. In this atmosphere of quiet reverence, Mod nurtured a deep appreciation for silence, preferring the company of books over idle chatter. When he longed for conversation, he created it himself—out in the open field, where his only audience was the vast, whispering expanse of nature.
His mind is an ever-churning repository of questions—questions for which he readily supplies his own answers: Why do eels burrow? Because they are too shy to face the world, embarrassed by their ugliness.
Why do fish have fins? Because they cannot walk.
He was born in 1966, an event his mother often recounted with vivid detail. It was a bitterly cold December morning when Cuenca witnessed its first major flash flood from the torrential monsoon rains. His father, braving the harsh downpour with a kerosene lamp in one hand, waded through the rising waters to fetch Apung Ingga, the revered midwife of the barrio. As the rain lashed down, his father found himself contemplating the unusual confluence of events—his son's imminent birth and the town’s first great flood. Was it an omen? A sign of something extraordinary?
It was five o’clock in the morning when Mod entered the world. Before leaving his laboring wife in the care of their other children, his father cracked open ten coconuts, pouring the liquid into a pitcher—an age-old remedy believed to ease childbirth. His wife drank it while waiting for Apung Ingga’s arrival. By the time the midwife finally stepped into the house, the baby had already begun his journey into the world. So eager was he to be born that he could not wait for assistance. But it was his first cries that perplexed his father the most. Unlike the uniform wails of newborns, Mod’s cries emerged in shifting tones, unpredictable and varied.
"This boy," his father mused with delight, "knows how to modulate his voice. Perhaps I am blessed with a future singer."
Apung Ingga, however, listened with an experienced ear, tilting her head as if weighing the significance of the infant's cry. "Hush, Saturnino," she said, dismissing the father’s musings. With the certainty of someone who had delivered countless children, she added, "A child who cries like that is not just crying—he is choosing his voice. He is a child unsure of what pitch to use in this world." Her words carried a quiet authority, and as if sealing fate itself, she wrapped the baby in flour sack sheets and laid him gently beside his mother.
"It’s a boy," she announced. "A very confused boy."
As Mod grew, his parents adhered to Apung Ingga’s judgment, believing that the best way to resolve his confusion was to leave him alone. His mother harbored secret anxieties, unable to shake off the thought that her son’s birth coincided with Cuenca’s first major flood—an event that became an annual occurrence due to deforestation. He was the only child in their town whose first cries were not singular or monotonous. His uniqueness seemed undeniable. His mother often thought, someday, he would accomplish something extraordinary. And whatever that would be, he would not wait to do it.
Life, however, was not kind. Mod’s childhood was marked by hardship, the weight of survival pressing upon his small shoulders. He labored alongside his parents—helping at home, toiling in the rice fields, working in public fishponds. He learned early on that survival was earned through sweat and perseverance. When typhoons destroyed their crops, he contributed to the family’s survival in whatever way he could. As the eldest of three siblings, responsibility was thrust upon him. During difficult times, he learned to sell whatever he could—scrap metal, old bundles, meat, peanuts, ice candies—anything that could turn a small profit. He borrowed money for small businesses, sometimes at steep interest rates, and learned the bitter sting of public humiliation when he failed to pay on time. He endured the silent judgment of classmates who came from wealthier families, the children of the very people who lent money to his parents. Slowly, he grew more reserved, his shyness becoming a shield against a world that often felt too cruel.
Yet, in solitude, Mod found solace. Left alone, he cultivated his own world. Books became his most cherished companions. Whatever he could get his hands on—borrowed novels, discarded textbooks, bargain-bin finds—he devoured them all. He did not merely read; he engaged in conversations with books as if they were living beings. When a story felt incomplete, he rewrote its ending. When a character’s fate seemed unjust, he imagined an alternative path. He extended dialogues, debated with protagonists, and reimagined worlds. His literary companions went beyond books. In time, he conversed with trees, scolded birds, reprimanded fish for being too slippery, and even berated fences for obstructing his way.
His imagination, boundless and uncontainable, earned him a peculiar kind of respect in town. He dreamed of Princeton through Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise, envisioned the fall of Bastille as the destruction of Lipa’s great church through Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. For the first time in his life, he seriously considered the distinction between the rich and the poor and how comforting it is to belong to the latter. Other authors such as Ayn Rand, Bronte, Elliot, H. James, Bocaccio and Cervantes were read not so much for their profound value but for their availability. The Bible was a favorite. He loved strong characters like Roark and Amory Blaine and felt deep sympathy for sufferers like Christ and Catherine Sloper. His life mingled with these foreigners and with powerful imagination he resurrected them in such a way they lived next door. These personalities were made into daily companions that he could visualize Hank Rearden planting rice and Danny Taggart washing clothes.
He longed for a college education, but he found solace in knowing that great minds—Hugo, Poe—had never needed Manila to write masterpieces. He convinced himself that the rice paddies and fishponds of Cuenca were enough. Enough to inspire. Enough to create. Enough to fuel a dream larger than himself.
Ah, Mod’s masterpiece! It would be grand—an international sensation akin to Tagore’s works. The Pulitzer, the Nobel—they would beckon him to America and Europe. But then, Rand whispered in his ear, warning against the trappings of fame. Fountainhead redefined his ambition. Who, he now asked himself, who will judge my masterpiece? Art, he concluded, is expression, not a commodity. Great art is valued not by immediate recognition, but by the depth of its impact over time.
2025-02-05 09:44:22
4students
Popong 20 / Life Ordinary
Four Students 3
Popong 19/ Life is Learning and Exploring
Popong 18 / Avoiding Distraction
Popong 17 / Enoch