A quarter of Heaven, a piece of Home
Guest writer: Lea Galimba
July 2016
My brain must have gotten tired of warning me that both my feet are swollen and they are beginning to ache, for I could no longer feel the pain, only the numbness. I cannot concentrate on the fact that soon enough, I can fill a bucket with my sweat. I looked at my arms and I can see the insect bites starting to leave ugly marks; I can sense an itchy reaction coming up.
Still, I did not stop. I cannot bring myself to.
I can only listen to what my heart was telling me; when to take some time and catch my breath, when to take one of my feet in front of the other and continue what I was there to do.
I can only trust what my eyes can see because despite the uncomfortable, conflicted feelings, I realized that everything about the trail is beautiful: rocks, waterfalls, wild flowers. We passed by hanging bridges that reminded me of my childhood, although they were old and rusty, they have many stories to tell, I know.
Once, while doing the assault, I have to stop; not so I can rest but so that I can stare at something that caught my attention: at the foot of a verdant green mountains and in front of the riverbank is a small space of land bursting with golden color; rice ready for harvest.
It was so different, so out of tone and so out of place that I thought if it wasn’t for the color, the place wouldn’t be as beautiful as it was.
In life, contrast matters. You don’t have to think like everybody else so you can blend in. Sometimes, you just have to be that one small difference.
Honest.
This place is too honest for its own good and I am beginning to fall under its spell. When you strip something of its prominent feature, you’ll usually find cracks and fault lines, most times, when you try to look closer, what you thought was solid ground turns out to be hollow.
Smokes and mirrors.
This place, however, doesn’t hide anything in the dark. What you see is all you can get. It is raw. It is genuine and true. Even the people I passed by wore a smile I can only distinguished as sincere.
But, is honesty a symbol of weakness? Or a form of strength?
When a person bares her soul to someone, will they admire her for it? Or will they use it against her? When you step into a place this beautiful and rare, will you keep it a secret and leave nothing but your footprints? Or stamped it with your presence?
It was early afternoon when we reached the house that we were supposed to stay in for the night. We passed by Nanay and Tatay’s hut on our way but because we were running out of time, I wasn’t able to get to know them more than hi and hellos.
I cannot begin to tell you how spectacular the view from the house was or how, when you take some time and sit and look at the mountain in front of you, the clouds put on a show so that you’ll feel like you’re in the front row seat of someone else’s life.
The kitchen was poorly lit; I can see clutter in the old, wooden table; pans, plates, mugs. As soon as I walked inside, I can smell coffee and wood, a hint of dew and ginger; it was an assault to my senses. I looked around the small corner of the room and I can imagine a mother cooking dinner for her family and a father cuddling his daughter while telling her a story.
I sat in one of the chairs and I close my eyes trying to sort out my sense of smell. I don’t know what it was but there was something in the air, something different, something familiar.
I opened my eyes and stared directly at the single window and I can hear stories and laughter. I liked the clutter, I remember thinking. It makes everything so... human. Imperfect but real.
A place could be a thousand things. It could be a hiding sanctuary, it could be, not just a point in space, but a home. A place can be the embodiment of your dreams, or a spot where you tuck your heart into.
Meeting the owners of the house reminds me that we each have two families in this world: the family we’re born into and the family that we make.
The family that we make is a collection of people we meet along the way and the memories we share with them. It is a series of hellos and goodbyes and the holding on we do in between.
It revolves around the stuff we are made of and the pieces of ourselves we try to leave behind for them to remember us by.
It is also those friends you came to know and love, even for a time.
This may even be those places we can never get tired of coming back to; that one place you cannot forget because it changed you the way no other place can.
Nanay and Tatay may not recall my name or my face, but if they can remember that at one point, a certain girl loved to linger in their poorly lit kitchen and listen to their stories, that this girl wants nothing more than to belong to their family even for a very short time, it’s more than enough for me.
That’s the best memory I know I can leave behind until I find myself coming back again.
Welcome to a small space of Heaven on Earth.
Welcome to Sitio Paraiso.
