Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
Romans 15:12
And again, Isaiah says,
"The Root of Jesse will spring up, one who will arise to rule over the nations; in him the Gentiles will hope."
He was becoming increasingly adventurous, at least by his own standards. The previous day, he had driven out to buy a plant, followed by a visit to another store for small pots. Somewhere along the way, he got lost, but he didn't mind. Getting lost was part of learning to navigate unfamiliar roads, especially in a country he had returned to after spending most of his adult life in the United States. He eventually found his way home just as the tropical heat was beginning to intensify.
At his age, he had learned to respect the limitations imposed by the weather. The midday heat in the Philippines could be punishing, and he was no longer inclined to challenge it unnecessarily. Between noon and late afternoon, when temperatures were often at their highest, he preferred to remain indoors. Like any creature seeking shelter from an unforgiving environment, he understood the wisdom of retreating to a cooler place. Dehydration, heat exhaustion, and heatstroke were risks he had no intention of taking lightly.
His driving adventure had also served another purpose. He wanted to kill time until the road in front of his house became easier to navigate. Every morning, the street transformed into a bustling marketplace, crowded with vendors, shoppers, pedestrians, and motorcycles. By eleven, however, much of the activity had subsided, leaving the road relatively clear. He was beginning to understand that the best times to leave the house were either very early in the morning, after the market crowds dispersed, or in the evening. Eventually, he would establish a routine that accommodated the local conditions while allowing him to pursue the activities that gave his days meaning.
There was another aspect of small-town life that he was gradually rediscovering, and it was not entirely pleasant. It was the peculiar atmosphere of a community where almost everybody knew everybody else, where personal affairs seemed to become public property, and where curiosity about one's neighbors could sometimes become a daily occupation.
In the American neighborhood where he had lived for thirty-five years, anonymity had been a form of freedom. His neighbors might have recognized him, but they generally had little interest in his personal affairs. People were busy working, raising families, pursuing careers, or simply minding their own business. Their indifference was not necessarily unfriendliness. It was an unspoken acknowledgment that everyone had a private life.
Here, things were different.
As early as six in the morning, people gathered around the marketplace, sitting, chatting, and observing the activity around them. Eventually, the gatherings dispersed, but some of the same people seemed to reappear elsewhere, continuing their conversations and observations. He sometimes wondered whether the town had developed an informal surveillance system sustained entirely by curiosity and an abundance of free time.
Of course, he understood that not everyone was watching everyone else. People who worked, attended school, or managed busy households had little time for such distractions. Still, there seemed to be a persistent culture of observation and speculation, particularly among those whose daily routines offered few other diversions. It was the kind of environment that could make private individuals feel unnecessarily exposed.
He had seen its effects on members of his own family. His brother, nephews, and nieces had sometimes preferred to withdraw from public attention rather than become subjects of gossip or speculation. Their response was understandable, but he found the idea of organizing his life around other people's curiosity deeply unsettling.
Fortunately, he had reasons to be optimistic.
Through what he considered the Lord's generosity, he now had a car, a small piece of land for gardening, and enough resources to pursue the activities he enjoyed. He also had his books, his writing, his computer projects, and the quiet pleasures of a private life. These were not extravagant ambitions, but they required some financial investment, and he was grateful that he had been provided with sufficient means to pursue them.
He had no desire to imitate those returning expatriates who seemed determined to announce their success through enormous houses, expensive condominiums, or luxury vehicles. He had seen how some people treated their return to the Philippines as an opportunity to demonstrate their financial achievements before an audience of relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances.
Perhaps he could afford some of those things himself. But what purpose would they serve?
He had no need for a mansion to establish his worth, nor did he need an expensive automobile to convince anyone that his years in America had been successful. The greatest luxury he could imagine was not a magnificent house or an impressive collection of possessions. It was the freedom to wake up in the morning and decide how to spend his day without feeling obligated to explain himself to anyone.
He felt some sympathy for his brother and sister-in-law, who seemed content to remain within a small, familiar circle, largely insulated from the curiosity of the surrounding community. At one point, he had considered following their example. Perhaps he could simply remain at home, enjoy his books and plants, and limit his movements to the immediate neighborhood.
But that was not the life he wanted.
After decades of living independently in America, he had developed a strong attachment to personal freedom. The idea of retreating behind closed doors merely to avoid the watchful eyes of others seemed almost intolerable. He imagined himself as a bird confined to a cage, still alive but deprived of the very thing that made life enjoyable.
He had too many alternatives to surrender to that kind of existence.
He could walk through nearby neighborhoods for exercise, drive to his garden to attend to his plants, or visit neighboring towns and cities. He could browse bookstores, shop for groceries, sit anonymously in a small café with a cup of coffee, and observe people without becoming part of their conversations. At home, he could return to his reading, writing, meditation, blogging, video editing, or simply take a nap when he felt tired.
None of these activities required an audience, and that was precisely what made them appealing.
That morning, as he sat by his window, he was reminded of how much he valued the quiet ritual of meditation. He had slept well, without interruption, and awakened to the gradual transition from darkness to dawn. Outside, the neighborhood was beginning to stir. Small engines interrupted the silence, footsteps passed along the street, and voices drifted through the morning air. Some belonged to children on their way to school. Others came from adults beginning their daily routines.
He sat quietly, listening and reflecting.
He had considered going for another long walk, but his body was still recovering from the previous day's exercise. Instead, he decided to spend the morning doing stretching and strengthening exercises at home. Later, around eleven, he planned to drive to the Toyota dealership to pick up the license plate for his wagon.
His garden project was also progressing. The filling of the lot with soil was nearly complete, and he estimated that another two truckloads would be sufficient. If everything proceeded as expected, the property might be ready by Sunday or Monday. He was eager to begin transforming the little lot into the tropical garden he had imagined.
He was also considering a trip to Manila, perhaps by bus, although another long walk through Banqueruan remained an appealing alternative. He had no particular desire to take photographs or update his Facebook account anytime soon. His Canon camera, however, continued to interest him, and he might experiment with producing videos for his YouTube channels.
He liked the relative anonymity of YouTube. Although he welcomed viewers and appreciated an audience, he no longer wanted his creative pursuits to be governed by likes, comments, or popularity. Writing, photography, and video production were forms of self-expression, and their value did not depend entirely on how many people watched or approved.
He wanted to create because he enjoyed creating.
Meanwhile, the peculiar dramas of small-town life continued to unfold around him. A cousin had been complaining since the previous day that certain people were attempting to destroy his reputation through rumors and insinuations. The cousin appeared deeply troubled, repeatedly returning to the subject as though his entire peace of mind depended on what others were saying about him.
It was a perfect illustration of the culture the returning expatriate wanted to avoid.
He wondered how much emotional energy was wasted on imagined insults, petty rivalries, and speculation about other people's intentions. In a community where mobility could be limited and opportunities for personal fulfillment unevenly distributed, gossip sometimes appeared to fill the spaces left by inactivity. He did not believe everyone participated in it, but he had seen enough to know that he wanted no part of it.
He preferred to remain an observer rather than a participant.
And yet, beneath his observations about the town and its inhabitants, another thought had been quietly developing throughout the morning.
Hope.
That was the word that mattered most to him now.
He had lost so much in such a short period. His former home in Florida was gone, along with the garden he had cultivated, the parks where he had walked, and the familiar surroundings that had given structure to thirty-five years of American life. More painfully, he had lost people whose presence had made those years meaningful.
Sometimes he still thought about Jim.
He could almost hear his friend's voice and imagine the ordinary conversations they once shared. There were moments when he instinctively wanted to tell Jim something amusing or interesting, only to remember that those conversations could never happen again. The realization still hurt, no matter how often he reminded himself of the finality of death.
He remembered his sister in much the same way. Their conversations had often wandered into gossip, family stories, absurd observations, and laughter. What he missed was not necessarily the subject of their conversations but the effortless familiarity of sharing them. He missed knowing that they were there, that he could speak to them whenever he wanted, and that their presence was woven into the ordinary fabric of his days.
He had once imagined that those relationships would continue for the rest of his life.
But life had made other arrangements.
He was grateful that the Lord had brought him to a different place, where the surroundings did not constantly remind him of the people he had lost. Had he remained in his Florida house, he might have encountered reminders of Jim everywhere—in the empty room, the familiar furniture, the driveway, and the countless ordinary places where their lives had intersected.
Here, in his childhood town, he was surrounded by different sights, sounds, and routines. The little dramas of barrio life sometimes irritated him, but they also amused him. He could sit quietly and observe the daily rituals of people who had remained in the same community for decades, following patterns of life that might have been familiar to him had he never left.
He occasionally wondered what kind of person he would have become if he had stayed.
Would he have been content with the same routines, the same neighbors, and the same small disputes? Would he have become another familiar face sitting in the marketplace, discussing the affairs of others while the years passed?
Perhaps. There was no way of knowing.
But he was grateful for the life he had experienced elsewhere, and he had no desire to abandon the independence it had taught him.
Hope, he realized, was not simply the expectation that something good would happen. It was the willingness to continue building a meaningful life despite the certainty that some things could never be recovered.
His hope now rested in several possibilities. He could maintain his health through medication, exercise, proper nutrition, and sensible daily habits. He could expand his mobility, discover beautiful places, and continue exploring the country he had returned to. He could transform his little garden into a peaceful retreat, pursue his creative interests, and use some of his resources to provide work for people who needed it.
He also hoped to avoid the temptation to recreate every aspect of his former American life. The pleasures of youth, the excitement of romantic and sexual encounters, and the freedom of exploring unfamiliar relationships belonged to a different chapter of his existence.
Occasionally, memories of those years returned with surprising clarity.
He had been fortunate to meet some extraordinarily attractive and memorable partners. Some relationships had been pleasurable and uncomplicated; others had involved arguments, misunderstandings, financial losses, sleepless nights, and moments of uncertainty. Looking back, he could acknowledge the difficulties without denying the excitement and beauty of those experiences.
They had been part of his youth, a period when he was more adventurous, less cautious, and more willing to take risks.
Now, when he looked around his hometown, he found the possibilities considerably narrower. The culture was different, privacy was harder to maintain, and the watchful eyes of the community seemed to discourage the kind of spontaneous encounters he had once enjoyed. He occasionally noticed an attractive man or encountered an appealing face on social media, but such moments rarely inspired him to pursue anything.
His standards remained high, perhaps unrealistically so. He had known people whose physical beauty, personality, and companionship had left lasting impressions. It was difficult not to compare others with those memories.
But he was also becoming increasingly aware of the futility of searching endlessly for something that belonged to the past.
He was sixty-four now, with medical conditions that required attention and a lifestyle that favored stability over unnecessary complications. He had spent decades developing a respectable, independent existence, and he saw little reason to jeopardize his peace of mind in pursuit of fleeting excitement.
He could still appreciate beauty without feeling compelled to possess it.
There was a time when he might have driven around looking for adventure, enjoying the anticipation of a possible encounter. Now, he preferred to drive in search of beautiful landscapes, interesting towns, peaceful gardens, and places where he could enjoy a cup of coffee without attracting attention.
The nature of his curiosity had changed.
He was no longer searching primarily for people who might excite him. He was searching for places and experiences that might enrich the years he had left.
He understood that attempting to reproduce his youthful adventures would be much like searching for replacements for Jim or his sister. Those people had been unique. No new friendship, relationship, or encounter could recreate the exact combination of affection, familiarity, and shared history that had made them irreplaceable.
He might meet new people, develop new friendships, or even experience another meaningful relationship. But these would have to be appreciated for what they were, not measured against the impossible expectation of becoming substitutes for those he had lost.
That was perhaps one of the most important lessons of aging: knowing when to cherish a memory without demanding that life reproduce it.
He had experienced enough beauty, affection, adventure, and companionship to be grateful. Some memories still made him smile; others brought sadness. But he no longer needed to chase every pleasure that had once defined his younger years.
He had other things to look forward to.
His garden would soon be ready. There were plants to grow, books to read, stories to write, videos to create, and roads he had not yet traveled. There were mornings to enjoy, quiet afternoons to spend in meditation, and unfamiliar places waiting to be discovered.
He had returned to the Philippines not to become a prisoner of its small-town customs, but to rediscover a life that could still be lived on his own terms.
The watchful eyes would remain. The marketplace would continue to buzz with conversations, rumors, and little dramas. People would still gather at dawn, observe their neighbors, and speculate about matters that did not concern them.
He could not change any of that, nor did he intend to try.
What he could change was his response.
He could choose to remain free, to move about without unnecessary self-consciousness, and to occupy his days with activities that brought him peace and fulfillment. He could accept the limitations of age without surrendering his curiosity, and he could acknowledge his grief without allowing it to define the remainder of his life.
Above all, he could continue to hope.
For him, hope was not the promise of recovering everything he had lost. It was the possibility of discovering that life still had something worthwhile to offer, even after the most beautiful chapters had ended.
Outside, the morning was advancing. The street was growing busier, and the familiar sounds of the barrio had replaced the silence of dawn.
In a few minutes, he would walk out to buy bottled water and perhaps some sweet kalamay, the sticky rice cake he had enjoyed since childhood.
It was a small pleasure, hardly worth mentioning in the larger scheme of things.
But perhaps that was the point.
At this stage of his life, happiness no longer needed to arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it was enough to have a quiet morning, a body still capable of movement, a garden waiting to be planted, a car ready for the next journey, and the freedom to decide where the day might lead.
And for all that, he remained grateful to the Lord.
There was still life to be lived, and hope was what would carry him forward.
2026-10-17 07:15:58
blog
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
Hope and the Watchful Eyes
Romans 15:12
And again, Isaiah says,
"The Root of Jesse will spring up, one who will arise to rule over the nations; in him the Gentiles will hope."
He was becoming increasingly adventurous, at least by his own standards. The previous day, he had driven out to buy a plant, followed by a visit to another store for small pots. Somewhere along the way, he got lost, but he didn't mind. Getting lost was part of learning to navigate unfamiliar roads, especially in a country he had returned to after spending most of his adult life in the United States. He eventually found his way home just as the tropical heat was beginning to intensify.
At his age, he had learned to respect the limitations imposed by the weather. The midday heat in the Philippines could be punishing, and he was no longer inclined to challenge it unnecessarily. Between noon and late afternoon, when temperatures were often at their highest, he preferred to remain indoors. Like any creature seeking shelter from an unforgiving environment, he understood the wisdom of retreating to a cooler place. Dehydration, heat exhaustion, and heatstroke were risks he had no intention of taking lightly.
His driving adventure had also served another purpose. He wanted to kill time until the road in front of his house became easier to navigate. Every morning, the street transformed into a bustling marketplace, crowded with vendors, shoppers, pedestrians, and motorcycles. By eleven, however, much of the activity had subsided, leaving the road relatively clear. He was beginning to understand that the best times to leave the house were either very early in the morning, after the market crowds dispersed, or in the evening. Eventually, he would establish a routine that accommodated the local conditions while allowing him to pursue the activities that gave his days meaning.
There was another aspect of small-town life that he was gradually rediscovering, and it was not entirely pleasant. It was the peculiar atmosphere of a community where almost everybody knew everybody else, where personal affairs seemed to become public property, and where curiosity about one's neighbors could sometimes become a daily occupation.
In the American neighborhood where he had lived for thirty-five years, anonymity had been a form of freedom. His neighbors might have recognized him, but they generally had little interest in his personal affairs. People were busy working, raising families, pursuing careers, or simply minding their own business. Their indifference was not necessarily unfriendliness. It was an unspoken acknowledgment that everyone had a private life.
Here, things were different.
As early as six in the morning, people gathered around the marketplace, sitting, chatting, and observing the activity around them. Eventually, the gatherings dispersed, but some of the same people seemed to reappear elsewhere, continuing their conversations and observations. He sometimes wondered whether the town had developed an informal surveillance system sustained entirely by curiosity and an abundance of free time.
Of course, he understood that not everyone was watching everyone else. People who worked, attended school, or managed busy households had little time for such distractions. Still, there seemed to be a persistent culture of observation and speculation, particularly among those whose daily routines offered few other diversions. It was the kind of environment that could make private individuals feel unnecessarily exposed.
He had seen its effects on members of his own family. His brother, nephews, and nieces had sometimes preferred to withdraw from public attention rather than become subjects of gossip or speculation. Their response was understandable, but he found the idea of organizing his life around other people's curiosity deeply unsettling.
Fortunately, he had reasons to be optimistic.
Through what he considered the Lord's generosity, he now had a car, a small piece of land for gardening, and enough resources to pursue the activities he enjoyed. He also had his books, his writing, his computer projects, and the quiet pleasures of a private life. These were not extravagant ambitions, but they required some financial investment, and he was grateful that he had been provided with sufficient means to pursue them.
He had no desire to imitate those returning expatriates who seemed determined to announce their success through enormous houses, expensive condominiums, or luxury vehicles. He had seen how some people treated their return to the Philippines as an opportunity to demonstrate their financial achievements before an audience of relatives, neighbors, and acquaintances.
Perhaps he could afford some of those things himself. But what purpose would they serve?
He had no need for a mansion to establish his worth, nor did he need an expensive automobile to convince anyone that his years in America had been successful. The greatest luxury he could imagine was not a magnificent house or an impressive collection of possessions. It was the freedom to wake up in the morning and decide how to spend his day without feeling obligated to explain himself to anyone.
He felt some sympathy for his brother and sister-in-law, who seemed content to remain within a small, familiar circle, largely insulated from the curiosity of the surrounding community. At one point, he had considered following their example. Perhaps he could simply remain at home, enjoy his books and plants, and limit his movements to the immediate neighborhood.
But that was not the life he wanted.
After decades of living independently in America, he had developed a strong attachment to personal freedom. The idea of retreating behind closed doors merely to avoid the watchful eyes of others seemed almost intolerable. He imagined himself as a bird confined to a cage, still alive but deprived of the very thing that made life enjoyable.
He had too many alternatives to surrender to that kind of existence.
He could walk through nearby neighborhoods for exercise, drive to his garden to attend to his plants, or visit neighboring towns and cities. He could browse bookstores, shop for groceries, sit anonymously in a small café with a cup of coffee, and observe people without becoming part of their conversations. At home, he could return to his reading, writing, meditation, blogging, video editing, or simply take a nap when he felt tired.
None of these activities required an audience, and that was precisely what made them appealing.
That morning, as he sat by his window, he was reminded of how much he valued the quiet ritual of meditation. He had slept well, without interruption, and awakened to the gradual transition from darkness to dawn. Outside, the neighborhood was beginning to stir. Small engines interrupted the silence, footsteps passed along the street, and voices drifted through the morning air. Some belonged to children on their way to school. Others came from adults beginning their daily routines.
He sat quietly, listening and reflecting.
He had considered going for another long walk, but his body was still recovering from the previous day's exercise. Instead, he decided to spend the morning doing stretching and strengthening exercises at home. Later, around eleven, he planned to drive to the Toyota dealership to pick up the license plate for his wagon.
His garden project was also progressing. The filling of the lot with soil was nearly complete, and he estimated that another two truckloads would be sufficient. If everything proceeded as expected, the property might be ready by Sunday or Monday. He was eager to begin transforming the little lot into the tropical garden he had imagined.
He was also considering a trip to Manila, perhaps by bus, although another long walk through Banqueruan remained an appealing alternative. He had no particular desire to take photographs or update his Facebook account anytime soon. His Canon camera, however, continued to interest him, and he might experiment with producing videos for his YouTube channels.
He liked the relative anonymity of YouTube. Although he welcomed viewers and appreciated an audience, he no longer wanted his creative pursuits to be governed by likes, comments, or popularity. Writing, photography, and video production were forms of self-expression, and their value did not depend entirely on how many people watched or approved.
He wanted to create because he enjoyed creating.
Meanwhile, the peculiar dramas of small-town life continued to unfold around him. A cousin had been complaining since the previous day that certain people were attempting to destroy his reputation through rumors and insinuations. The cousin appeared deeply troubled, repeatedly returning to the subject as though his entire peace of mind depended on what others were saying about him.
It was a perfect illustration of the culture the returning expatriate wanted to avoid.
He wondered how much emotional energy was wasted on imagined insults, petty rivalries, and speculation about other people's intentions. In a community where mobility could be limited and opportunities for personal fulfillment unevenly distributed, gossip sometimes appeared to fill the spaces left by inactivity. He did not believe everyone participated in it, but he had seen enough to know that he wanted no part of it.
He preferred to remain an observer rather than a participant.
And yet, beneath his observations about the town and its inhabitants, another thought had been quietly developing throughout the morning.
Hope.
That was the word that mattered most to him now.
He had lost so much in such a short period. His former home in Florida was gone, along with the garden he had cultivated, the parks where he had walked, and the familiar surroundings that had given structure to thirty-five years of American life. More painfully, he had lost people whose presence had made those years meaningful.
Sometimes he still thought about Jim.
He could almost hear his friend's voice and imagine the ordinary conversations they once shared. There were moments when he instinctively wanted to tell Jim something amusing or interesting, only to remember that those conversations could never happen again. The realization still hurt, no matter how often he reminded himself of the finality of death.
He remembered his sister in much the same way. Their conversations had often wandered into gossip, family stories, absurd observations, and laughter. What he missed was not necessarily the subject of their conversations but the effortless familiarity of sharing them. He missed knowing that they were there, that he could speak to them whenever he wanted, and that their presence was woven into the ordinary fabric of his days.
He had once imagined that those relationships would continue for the rest of his life.
But life had made other arrangements.
He was grateful that the Lord had brought him to a different place, where the surroundings did not constantly remind him of the people he had lost. Had he remained in his Florida house, he might have encountered reminders of Jim everywhere—in the empty room, the familiar furniture, the driveway, and the countless ordinary places where their lives had intersected.
Here, in his childhood town, he was surrounded by different sights, sounds, and routines. The little dramas of barrio life sometimes irritated him, but they also amused him. He could sit quietly and observe the daily rituals of people who had remained in the same community for decades, following patterns of life that might have been familiar to him had he never left.
He occasionally wondered what kind of person he would have become if he had stayed.
Would he have been content with the same routines, the same neighbors, and the same small disputes? Would he have become another familiar face sitting in the marketplace, discussing the affairs of others while the years passed?
Perhaps. There was no way of knowing.
But he was grateful for the life he had experienced elsewhere, and he had no desire to abandon the independence it had taught him.
Hope, he realized, was not simply the expectation that something good would happen. It was the willingness to continue building a meaningful life despite the certainty that some things could never be recovered.
His hope now rested in several possibilities. He could maintain his health through medication, exercise, proper nutrition, and sensible daily habits. He could expand his mobility, discover beautiful places, and continue exploring the country he had returned to. He could transform his little garden into a peaceful retreat, pursue his creative interests, and use some of his resources to provide work for people who needed it.
He also hoped to avoid the temptation to recreate every aspect of his former American life. The pleasures of youth, the excitement of romantic and sexual encounters, and the freedom of exploring unfamiliar relationships belonged to a different chapter of his existence.
Occasionally, memories of those years returned with surprising clarity.
He had been fortunate to meet some extraordinarily attractive and memorable partners. Some relationships had been pleasurable and uncomplicated; others had involved arguments, misunderstandings, financial losses, sleepless nights, and moments of uncertainty. Looking back, he could acknowledge the difficulties without denying the excitement and beauty of those experiences.
They had been part of his youth, a period when he was more adventurous, less cautious, and more willing to take risks.
Now, when he looked around his hometown, he found the possibilities considerably narrower. The culture was different, privacy was harder to maintain, and the watchful eyes of the community seemed to discourage the kind of spontaneous encounters he had once enjoyed. He occasionally noticed an attractive man or encountered an appealing face on social media, but such moments rarely inspired him to pursue anything.
His standards remained high, perhaps unrealistically so. He had known people whose physical beauty, personality, and companionship had left lasting impressions. It was difficult not to compare others with those memories.
But he was also becoming increasingly aware of the futility of searching endlessly for something that belonged to the past.
He was sixty-four now, with medical conditions that required attention and a lifestyle that favored stability over unnecessary complications. He had spent decades developing a respectable, independent existence, and he saw little reason to jeopardize his peace of mind in pursuit of fleeting excitement.
He could still appreciate beauty without feeling compelled to possess it.
There was a time when he might have driven around looking for adventure, enjoying the anticipation of a possible encounter. Now, he preferred to drive in search of beautiful landscapes, interesting towns, peaceful gardens, and places where he could enjoy a cup of coffee without attracting attention.
The nature of his curiosity had changed.
He was no longer searching primarily for people who might excite him. He was searching for places and experiences that might enrich the years he had left.
He understood that attempting to reproduce his youthful adventures would be much like searching for replacements for Jim or his sister. Those people had been unique. No new friendship, relationship, or encounter could recreate the exact combination of affection, familiarity, and shared history that had made them irreplaceable.
He might meet new people, develop new friendships, or even experience another meaningful relationship. But these would have to be appreciated for what they were, not measured against the impossible expectation of becoming substitutes for those he had lost.
That was perhaps one of the most important lessons of aging: knowing when to cherish a memory without demanding that life reproduce it.
He had experienced enough beauty, affection, adventure, and companionship to be grateful. Some memories still made him smile; others brought sadness. But he no longer needed to chase every pleasure that had once defined his younger years.
He had other things to look forward to.
His garden would soon be ready. There were plants to grow, books to read, stories to write, videos to create, and roads he had not yet traveled. There were mornings to enjoy, quiet afternoons to spend in meditation, and unfamiliar places waiting to be discovered.
He had returned to the Philippines not to become a prisoner of its small-town customs, but to rediscover a life that could still be lived on his own terms.
The watchful eyes would remain. The marketplace would continue to buzz with conversations, rumors, and little dramas. People would still gather at dawn, observe their neighbors, and speculate about matters that did not concern them.
He could not change any of that, nor did he intend to try.
What he could change was his response.
He could choose to remain free, to move about without unnecessary self-consciousness, and to occupy his days with activities that brought him peace and fulfillment. He could accept the limitations of age without surrendering his curiosity, and he could acknowledge his grief without allowing it to define the remainder of his life.
Above all, he could continue to hope.
For him, hope was not the promise of recovering everything he had lost. It was the possibility of discovering that life still had something worthwhile to offer, even after the most beautiful chapters had ended.
Outside, the morning was advancing. The street was growing busier, and the familiar sounds of the barrio had replaced the silence of dawn.
In a few minutes, he would walk out to buy bottled water and perhaps some sweet kalamay, the sticky rice cake he had enjoyed since childhood.
It was a small pleasure, hardly worth mentioning in the larger scheme of things.
But perhaps that was the point.
At this stage of his life, happiness no longer needed to arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it was enough to have a quiet morning, a body still capable of movement, a garden waiting to be planted, a car ready for the next journey, and the freedom to decide where the day might lead.
And for all that, he remained grateful to the Lord.
There was still life to be lived, and hope was what would carry him forward.
2026-10-17 07:15:58
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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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