Within The Rainbow's Bend

JFK: The True Age of Hope and His Brand of Magic

2025-07-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

"And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."

November 22,1963: The date will forever be etched in the collective consciousness of Americans in every walk of life and will stir the anguished recollection of millions around the globe who lived on that ill-fated day. It was one of the world's darkest events for that diverse band of humanity of the 60's who had placed their hope auspiciously on the promise couched in the Camelotian leadership of one so vibrant and so gifted.

Charisma was often used to explain his phenomenal appeal by both detractors and supporters, a word that they thought could sum it all, a single adjective that mayhap could define his remarkable pull for admiration, even endearment. But charisma, though an unmistakable element of his extraordinary persona, did not even touch the true nature of the man. His incumbency as leader of the free world was short but momentous; brief, but full of promise and hope, especially for those who inhabit the third world countries that harbor little in resources, financial and otherwise. It was the time when America's political standing in the world stage was at its highest; it was the age of strength; it was the era of culture and class; it was the years of Alliance For Progress that brought America's help to underdeveloped nations with its peace corps volunteers. It was also a time of national pride when America, through its space program, attempted to conquer the hurdle to space domination.

But it was also a time of turmoil and chaos that saw the height of the Civil Rights Movement, the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the Cuban Missile Crisis, as well as the Vietnam War. Through all the challenges that were heaped upon him and his administration from here and abroad, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th president of the United States, remained a figure of unrelenting determination to keep the fire of American leadership burning as he stamped its mark in the world stage as that "shining city on the hill". His patriotic inclinations and desire to shield America from the clutches of wars that demanded the highest price of life and resources was unpopular among the global elites who profited from the chaos antithesis to peace. He was young - the youngest of American presidents - and his youth was, in many ways, considered by the more experienced in world affairs as synonymous to lack of strength and wisdom. So his political enemies tested his resolve in policies that did not align with their own. They attacked and blocked legislations and foreign policy matters that they thought did not support their own agenda. But time and again, they underestimated him. Though there were some unfortunate decisions that almost crushed him, such as the Bay of Pigs debacle in the early part of his ascension into office, he learned from the experience. More than that, he showed he understood what true leadership entailed: he owned the mistake, though it was not necessarily his alone. The previous administration seemed to have failed, purposely or otherwise, to brief and give him all the vital information about the mission. But he made no excuses and spoke to the American people with the fortitude and grit only a true leader could muster. With decisiveness and candor, he faced the harsh backlash that was sure to come. But his loyal supporters knew there was more to this young and handsome leader than met the eye - and they were on point. He had proven himself to be that inspiring and strong president America, at that time needed, a true leader that would establish American dominance in the world stage.

Then came "The Missiles of October" in 1962, that unfathomable threat of nuclear Armageddon not only to America, but to a world that valued peace regardless of its fragility and impermanence. The Soviet Union, through Nikita Khrushchev's leadership, tried to build a nuclear missile base in Cuba, a country only 90 miles away from mainland United States. In a 13-day negotiations, when a nuclear war seemed imminent, JFK didn't blink. As the world held its collective breath, a compromise was finally reached and the threat of a nuclear war was averted. JFK's courageous and astute handling of the crisis earned him, understandably, the gratitude and respect of those who underestimated him before. The Cuban missile crisis was the litmus test of backbone and fortitude that put him securely on the pages of world history. But his glory days as a leader was not meant to last.

Friday, November 22, 1963 in Dallas, Texas started out with an overcast sky and a light rain. As the hours ticked away, the weather improved and the sun started to shine through the gloom. Thinking the nice weather would hold, JFK and his entourage decided to forego the protective plexiglass bubble top of his convertible so he could wave to the crowd along the motorcade route. But at Dealey Plaza, unbeknownst to everybody, his journey would end, once and for all. At 12:30 pm, shots rang amid the crowd's enthusiastic greetings to the leader of the free world. He slumped forward, spilling blood and brain matter on the car floor, with that smile he was ready to give to the crowd lining the sidewalk completely erased before it even bloomed on his handsome face. Cries of anguish from his dear wife, blended with his Secret Service detail's swift action to protect, rent the mid-day air. But he was gone, gone, as a shocked and stunned world watched on their TV screens that black day in America in a state of horror and disbelief. Like a shooting star that swiftly came and left, John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his momentous presidency will remain etched in the hearts of those who lived those glorious - then darkened - years.

2024-06-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

MAYDAY!!!

Tuesday, May 30, 2024: Our generation’s day of infamy! I will never try to marginalize the horrific event of another day that brought America to its knees more than 80 years ago. It was a catastrophe of a magnitude never before seen in the annals of American history and whose effect on the country and the world would forever be etched in pain in the hearts and minds of those who love this country. It left an indelible mark that would never be erased because it was a thrust of pure evil in the heart of the nation; it was an onslaught of horror to the core of America; it was an assault of unconscionable treachery to a country who believed a declaration of intent still governed even in a world steeped in chaos.

That was then, and this is now. Two days ago, evil struck, once more, the heart of this nation. Its poisonous arrow was plunged, deep and piercing, to the most tender compartment that housed its soul. America writhed in pain! In senseless agony it came crashing to the canvas of doubt and acrimony, indignation, loss of trust, outrage, and a bevy of other emotions that came to those who felt betrayed by a system created to protect them.

A man, whose only crime is his passionate desire to MAGA, to return America to its glory days and make it the haven it used to be for those who live within its once glorious shores, became the sacrificial lamb of those whose evil designs have rendered them blind to the dictates of reason and the rule of law. The man, declared guilty of “crimes” manipulated and contrived to fit the sinister designs of the well-connected and powerful, was laughed at, mocked, and maligned in the airwaves and news outlets around the country and the world. His formidable and imposing personality, his love for the country he served with dedication and honor, his knack for fulfilling his declared promises, were detested by the self-aggrandized government mob that planned his disastrous fall from grace. They vowed their scheme would not be thwarted at any cost, because the prize loomed large and promising in the scope of their immoral horizon: America itself!

But America is more than, even in his greatness, this MAGA man! America is you and me and the countless patriots who love and serve this country. America is the farmer of brawn and energy, the diligent restaurant waitress, the dedicated schoolteacher, the physicians and nurses who serve the sick and afflicted, the vendor, the truck driver, the mailman, the delivery person, and all of those in every work and profession that make this America the greatest country in the world. America is home, a place where the heart dwells with those we love. It is that piece of brown earth God bestowed upon us to protect and call our own. And it is in this land, America, where the flag that symbolizes its long-loved liberties must always fly proud and free.

Are we willing to just timidly acquiesce to those whose evil schemes will rob us of this country we love? America, with its priceless freedoms enshrined in the Constitution, the country that was preserved for its rights and liberties by those who gave the ultimate sacrifice today and through the ages, the land that shaped our destinies as a people with its enviable blessings, is about to be snatched from our grasp by the destructive forces that are engineering our demise. We are at the pivotal crossroad that will decide our final journey as a nation. Are we equal to the task of preserving our heritage paid by the blood and tears of great Americans of valor and fortitude?

MAYDAY! We are now in need of succor as a nation and we are issuing this distress call: MAYDAY! Citizens of America, come out from the stupor and apathy that bind the spirit of its vital power and fight to redeem what we have lost. Yes, we have lost some battles, but through grit and determination empowered by our love for America, we will win the war!

MAYDAY: NOVEMBER 5, 2024 is the day we take this country back! VOTE!

MAGA! Bold and strong, roaring and decisive, resolute and tenacious, let us MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! RED is our badge of courage; VOTE RED and help in every effort to elect good men and women to our government.

November 5, 2024: The Day of Redemption for AMERICA and the MAGA MAN

GOD BLESS AMERICA!

MOMENTS IN TIME: CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA

2023-11-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

Is there an apt description for Cape Town, this gem of a place? Despite lacking in full perspective about this city of contrasts, I think most will agree if I describe it in a superlative, one-word adjective: AMAZING! Its allure, often spoken of by those who have visited this South African city and extolled by those who came from its shores did not sound convincing to me initially. Honestly, Cape Town was not on my wide-ranging bucket list of places to visit. But a great company called GSPARTNERS has a way of drawing, even the skeptics, from a state of ennui to guarded enthusiasm. So I was pleasantly surprised when my preconceived notion of the place was proven wrong! The fact is, beauty is best appreciated when beheld personally and not merely described, since words and pictures do not fully substitute for what sight can behold.

The "Mother City", an iconic name for an iconic place, is a beguiling metropolis that gained its nickname for being the first European settlement in South Africa. But I will not pretend to be a connoisseur of its history and culture and would rather confine my description to some of the most thrilling experiences of our visit, particularly the African Safari.

The safari is an experience of a lifetime, but I will not sugar-coat it. The thick dust that can partially obliterate the sight for a moment is brutal; the unrelenting wind, that seems to be the mainstay on a safari exploit, is unforgiving; the rough terrain that will not dispense mercy to aching and brittle bones can be a challenge to some. But is the "ordeal" worth it? Absolutely!

A mesmerizing tableau of mountains and hills dotted with wild flowers in an array of arresting colors - yellow, white, pink, purple - lend softness and delicate contrast to the unyielding sandstones that seem to hold the stalwart mountains. Wildlife thrive and roam freely in the confines of their natural habitat: the semi-aquatic rhino wallowing in a small brown pond, a pack of zebras nuzzling some blades of grass searching for food, male and female lions turning their heads away from their "trespassers" in a resentful gesture, a baboon here and there, a family of giraffes extending their long necks in seeming act of superiority to the tall trees others find out of reach.

But the allure of Cape Town does not stop where wildlife roam. It is not confined to the grandeur of its mountains, nor on the raw, untouched enchantment of its far-flung forests. One of the most striking beauties of this city is its seeming interminable ocean. The sparkling shores where the immaculate waves excitedly cavort with age-old rocks scattered on white sand is a sight to behold. In a rhythmic sway as ancient as the sea itself, they rise like a crescendo, then smash in wild abandon to the ever-faithful waiting shore. The sun, spell-bound by such display, watches from its perch above, moves behind the hills, then hides for a spell where the sea meets the sky. Again, it will repeat in unbroken sequence day in and day out until the end of time.

We came face to face with a world God showered generously with natural richness and untamed beauty. It reminds me of the poem penned by the American essayist and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, about a wild flower called the "Rhodora", which says:

"Rhodora! If the sages asked thee why

This charm is wasted on the tree and sky

Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing

Then beauty has its own excuse for being."

Cape Town, with its forests, ocean and hills, was blessed with a natural wild charm that was there to be appreciated and experienced by those who had been given the opportunity of a lifetime. GSPARTNERS made that experience a living reality and I would be remiss if I fail to acknowledge that. Although money cannot buy happiness, having it at one's disposal makes life satisfying and fuller in many ways. So, thank you, GSPartners! I am grateful beyond measure as well to the true GSP power couple whose help, encouragement, and unwavering support give me and others the courage to "strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield" to the toxic blatters of the skeptics. You rock, Zeny and Mars! But most of all, my utmost gratitude and thanksgiving go to the power above us all, he who, with his infinite love and mercy made everything possible. So, now and always, to GOD be the glory!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL!!!

STANDING for AMERICA

2017-10-08T18:32:00.001-07:00

(Written and posted on FB on 10/8/2016, one month before the Presidential Election)

STANDING FOR AMERICA!!

I know, I know. Every liberal is heading to Celebrationland armed with a machete to hack Trump's reputation to smithereens after the leaked video of his disgusting comment about a woman. It's bad, no question about it. There is that part of the mother and grandmother in me that would not attempt to excuse such a "piggish" (that's what they said) behavior and would probably smack him silly should I hear him say it to the females in my family. BUT, my support for Trump is not, and never depended on shared values, never on the conduct of Donald Trump, the man. I have always said that he is not perfect, that he is flawed, like any human being. In that respect, however, as bigmouthed as he is, I don't think he ever attempted to portray himself as better or "holier than thou".

SO, did this latest and dirtiest scandal just unleashed by the feral Clinton Camp to undermine his ever-growing lead in the polls shake my resolve to support Donald Trump? Call me a fool, but the earthquake did not bother me! My values are mine and his are his. I am not supporting a man who thinks like me, who worships like me, whose attitude and values mirror my own. No, because this election is not about the little me. It is about the country that I love; it is about the future of a people that my children and grandchildren will be a part of and it is incumbent upon me to ensure that they have the America I came to call my own 38 years ago. I am an American by choice. I pledged allegiance to this country and my first duty is, with the little I could do, to ensure it survives. This coming election, I will come to the polling booth with one name to fight for, AMERICA! That battle can only be won with an army of patriots whose love for their country supersedes their dislike of their man-of-clay general: DONALD TRUMP!

There are two opposing forces that matter this election and to be fair to the liberals, I will not give it the "good vs. evil" characterization because, obviously, "good" will have to be stretched to shreds to fit either of them, give or take a few personal differences. But there is one compelling yardstick by which I will measure who will be best to lead this country in the next four years of struggle it definitely faces: LOVE FOR AMERICA! That is one benchmark that will not fail and establishes a startling contrast between Trump and Clinton. I think that is the prototype that will spell a paradigm shift in people's way of thinking because Trump will always land on top of the scorecard if we can all open our minds and be honest with ourselves. Donald Trump, with all his billions, can live a life of untold luxury many lifetimes over, yet, he exposed himself to the ignominy of derision, lies, name-calling, mud-slinging, and downright hatred of those who dislike him because he is worried about where this country is going. The socialist ideologues of this country (like Hillary Clinton), with the help of the world's plutocrats are trying to drag the country into a world of their own making where oligarchy and the New World Order hold the baton of power; where the American Constitution is a despised and forgotten archaic document penned by forgotten, idealistic men of a bygone era; where freedoms fought for by valiant men who gave their all, are trampled upon the halls of power of lies and corruption. That is, in a simple, abbreviated nutshell, Hillary's America!

We have a crucial choice to make this coming election, my fellow Americans: Listen to the exaggerated tales of imperfections, misrepresented or otherwise, of those who love to paint Trump with all the varied colors of hate- misogynist, sexist, racist, xenophobic, etc. Ignore the writings on the wall and give your loved ones a future of open borders, of illegal immigrants who will take all you have worked for away from your family that deserves the fruit of your labors. Anticipate a country without freedoms cemented by Clinton's appointment of ultra-liberal Supreme Court justices who will decimate all the values this country has stood for and for which untold lives have been sacrificed to preserve. Make abortion of the helpless unborn be the norm and get used to the horrors of terrorist attacks as Hillary intensifies the unvetted entry of Muslim refugees who are changing Europe's social, cultural, and economic landscape right now. Get used to daily news of rapes, criminalities, Sharia law, and trampling of your rights as citizens of this country because Muslim domination has marched unchecked into our shores. Adapt to the lies and forget your long-held sublime belief that all are equal under the law, for the person you have chosen will always hold herself above the rest of us and in her corrupt, grossly dishonest, and inept rule, sprinkled with a good dose of lies at every turn, will sell this country and all our rights, piece by piece to the highest bidder. Case in point: the sale of 20% of America's uranium deposit to Russia, one of her numerous influence peddling activities as Secretary of State. If you think as Americans we could hold her accountable once she is in office, think again! If she is above the law now, if the media is under her thumb now, if she has control of the different heads of departments of the U.S. government who shamelessly cover up all her infringement of established laws now, do you honestly believe anything would improve once she is safely entrenched in that coveted seat in the Oval Office? If your answer is "yes", dream on!

The other choice: TRUMP! Yes, the brash, the loud- mouthed braggart, the
offensive, insulting misogynist or whatever irritating, annoying, description you want to label him. His one redeeming quality and for which no one can take away from him is his unapologetic LOVE for AMERICA and for which his policies are carefully crafted: Border walls to stem the tide of illegal immigration that brings criminal elements and illegal drugs to this country; effective vetting process before Muslim refugees that could bring in terrorist elements are allowed to come; the preservation of Freedom and rights of Americans with the appointment of conservative Supreme Court Justices; reversing the questionable Executive Orders signed by Obama, including the repeal of Obamacare; strengthening our military and assuring that our Veterans receive the financial and medical care they desperately need; providing an effective, common sense leadership that will restore American standing in the halls of world power; bringing jobs back to America and creating a solid economic platform that will ensure our unemployed citizens are provided jobs to support their families; putting AMERICA FIRST by ensuring our safety, economic security, and our basic FREEDOMS, including the 2nd amendment, are upheld and maintained in every aspect of American life.

Oh, I know what you'll say: Tall order! Not at all! Besides, what have you got to lose? Hillary has spent decades in different government positions with no laudable accomplishment, positions she used to advance her agenda of ruthless power and acquisition of wealth and personal gain for self-aggrandizement. That is her track record sprinkled with a healthy dose of massive lies, and if you think she will change as she achieves her loftiest goal, then I will bet my bottom dollar against you if I were a betting man (woman). Hillary is nothing but the face of greed that she slyly covered with honeyed words of deceit to accomplish her goal of ultimate power. Trump? HE WILL DELIVER because he is a man of action and he hates to lose! But more than that, it is because of this one incontrovertible truth, the truth that makes him tick: HE IS A PATRIOT; HE LOVES AMERICA! If everything is equal between him and Hillary and this is the main deciding point this coming election, with no second thought, in a nano heartbeat and with no regrets, I will cast my priceless vote for that flawed, imperfect man: TRUMP, all the way to the White House!!! #IAMSTILL DEPLORABLEANDMAKENOAPOLOGIES!

STAND UP!!!

2017-09-26T20:52:00.000-07:00

Freedom of speech has always been the comfortable cover by which those on the left of the political spectrum tried to shield their twisted rhetoric when cornered. Funny though, that when the same argument is used by those they disagree with, they vehemently denounce it and attribute such use of the same freedom as racist, homophobic, misogynistic, or any of those insulting labels that cut the thread of sound and logical debate. That is how they operate because a lot of times, they have no leg to stand on.

Case in point? This melodrama of the NFA "taking a knee" that consumes the airwaves and every news outlet from coast-to-coast, from sea to shining sea! Once again, the blame for the disrespectful actions against the flag and the National Anthem that these ungrateful, pompous "little men" who call themselves "athletes" have displayed before the recent NFL games, was conveniently shoved at the doorstep of President Trump. True, he denounced their despicable action and called out the owners for their failure to keep their employees - yes, they are employees - toeing the line. And yes, he did not mince words and called them a name that sparked another flame of controversy in this already volatile issue. But for all intents and purposes, isn't that also an exercise of his First Amendment right? Did he lose that right when he became president of the United States? Is he less deserving of exercising free speech? Did he forfeit this right, this freedom, because it is an issue he should refrain from commenting? It is ludicrous to even consider an affirmative answer to these questions; yet, those who support some NFL members' contemptible action have forgotten that freedom is an expansive, equalizing medium, that no one, in this great country has a monopoly to it, that they cannot demand it while refusing to grant its use to those they do not agree with. Prince or vagabond, billionaire or ghetto dweller, learned or dumb, should possess the same capacity and right to the exercise of men's basic freedoms.

And so they take a knee! But while I uphold their right to display to the world that inherent right, I feel they fail to understand that there is a time and place, as well as a right platform, to indulge in the exercise of such. In their incessant desire to make a point against every word and action of a president they hate, they sacrificed their own honor and dignity as Americans and as role models to the young. As they spitefully took a knee to a cause they thought they fully understand, of righting some law enforcement wrongs, perceived or otherwise, they cut to the core of the American soul. For our flag, our anthem, is the soul, the spirit, and the heart by which America survives! By taking a knee while the "Star-Spangled Banner" is being played, by hiding in the shadows of their bunkers, they displayed a suffocating air of arrogance and ingratitude that trampled the graves of men and women of courage who gave the ultimate sacrifice to bequeath to them an enviable country where men are free.

Those athletes who took a knee and the owners who tolerate their disrespectful stance have been blinded by their millions. They have forgotten where they came from and who brought them where they are. They have traded disrespect and dishonor to the virtues only men of integrity uphold. They have forgotten that the American flag, and the anthem that bespeaks of courage, hope, sacrifice, love of country, and heroic deeds, is an echo from the hallowed chambers of stalwart and greater men, present or long gone.

The men of the NFL have chosen to forget that those men whose noble sacrifice make up every thread and fiber of the American flag, once played another game, eerie as it was, where the applause did not come from an adoring crowd but from the deadly sound of bombs and the barrel of a thousand guns! I imagine that those heroes, those men of uncommon valor, also took a knee as they fall on a blood-drenched ground, not to protest the symbols of the country they love but for the honor of fighting for the freedoms of today's lesser men.

Men of the NFL, respect the flag and those who died for it! For the country who gave you what you have, be the best men you could be! STAND UP!!!

CHIMERA

2016-07-04T23:33:00.000-07:00

I stirred from my fitful sleep and saw the towering Cliffs of Moher beckoning before me, the raging waters below mesmerizing my fog-hazy brain as it moved in a dance-like trance. All at once, I was transported to the entrance of a magnificent castle that had seen centuries of power and prestige, wars and conflicts, the pomp and circumstance of royal life, and the passing of sovereignty from one potentate to another. In a split second, I was in front of the Stone of Eloquence, the Blarney Stone at the Blarney Castle. Should I kiss it or should I not? Then coming from afar, a voice, indistinct at first, then gathered clarity and definition as it slowly bridged the distance. It was charming, lyrical, the voice of a master poet. Through the years, it echoed the once - and still is - artful play of words:
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadow deep;"

Ah, the immortal W.B. Yeats! Yeats, pride of the Irish, lulling me with the beauty of your verses, how well you know my heart! Will you honor me with your surreal presence? Will you step out of a time-capsule fantasy and spellbind my today with your poetic skills that once enthralled the world's literary throng?

But as speedy as it came, the cadence of the verses halted, the crystal-blue waters of the "Emerald Isles" receded, and the illusory castle imploded as the foggy veil of sleep lifted. As reality dawned, I saw myself in a familiar, darkened room, the quiet, sonorous hum of the air-conditioner that makes the blistering, triple-digit Vegas temperature comfortable fills the boredom of the quiet night, and my "vagabond" shoes - those "vagabond" pair that always longed to stray far and out into the world - are still anchored undisturbed at the foot of my bed!

Reality! I felt the ache of disappointment that started two days ago returned as that unapologetic voice of an American Airlines employee callously declared after more than two hours of flight delay: "Flight 108 to Heathrow (layover before Dublin) CANCELLED"! The next flight would be the day after which would not suit our tour schedule. Then home-bound. An ugly chimera, no less! Some say there is a reason for everything, so I won't question the stroke, however unexpected, of unerring Providence. But it's such a downer, no question about it.

Yeats, keep singing your immortal verses. Let them continue wafting through the soft velvet of the cottony clouds cast forth from your Irish shores. You are still there. I know, for greatness does not fade, nor it ceases to be. I want to feel the indomitable Irish spirit that exudes from those enchanting emerald-green isles of beauty that beacon to the senses to enjoy, to admire, to explore. Clinging to my illusions, I am sure they will not disappoint. So, "start spreading the news. I'm leaving today" (lyrics from New York, New York). Well, not quite, but soon, soon!

Hank Locklin 'Galway Bay'

2016-07-04T21:13:00.001-07:00

MEMORIAL DAY Thoughts

2016-05-31T07:44:00.003-07:00

MEMORIAL DAY thoughts:

"Old Glory", there it waves in the waning sun! Tomorrow, it will be poised to greet the day, a day of remembrance, to honor those who left but never returned. Stripes of red and white with fifty stars in a backdrop of blue, "Old Glory" symbolizes many things to this great nation and to the world. Well or ill, however it is perceived in a microcosm of downgraded values and depreciated standards, it will continue to stand as a beacon of hope to those it has served and saved. This cherished emblem of purity, hardiness and valor, vigilance, perseverance and justice, of which its tricolors stand, is the inspiration that fueled men and women of uncommon courage to defy the grave in the defense of humanity's most valued birthright - freedom!

Tomorrow, in the dawn of day, we will pay respect to the fallen and and lay memorial wreaths to their quiet and lonely graves. We will recall with solemnity and gratitude the gift they so unselfishly bestowed to a country - even to a world -that many times fails to appreciate the magnitude of their hallowed sacrifice. Tomorrow, we will pay tribute to these heroes' shortened lives; we will express regret for the future they never knew, to the joys and bliss they never claimed. Tomorrow, the plaintive notes of bugles and drums will play some voiceless refrain as a posthumous homage to those whose red-hot blood of courage watered the ground we stand upon. Tomorrow, if we listened in quiet reverence in the hush of day, we may still hear the soundless call of those who breathe their last in the dark of night because they believe we deserve a gift only love can redeem. For is it not said: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends"? - John 15:3

"For our fathers gone before us,
That they have not toiled in vain;
For the mother hearts that bore us
And shall not waste their pain;
For the childhood games and laughter
And the sorrows that turned their tears
To a song in the heart hereafter
Unto the end of years -
For these, and what else unspoken
Live when a soldier dies,
You are the body broken -
You are the Sacrifice."
- Brian Hooker, Commemorative Poem for Yale Men who died in the war)

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2015-12-17T16:33:00.000-08:00

Today, I will stake my claim to truth and common sense. I will ignore the groundswell of discordant voices clamoring for a departure from reason in the guise of tolerance and diversity. Today, I will wade in the dangerous waters of political incorrectness and declare what I believe and know is true. This Christmas, or anytime thereafter, I will not perjure myself and call this icon of the season a name it does not truly represent. This is a Christmas Tree, not a common Holiday tree!

Does it matter? A famous Shakespearean quote declared: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet". But ours does not resemble, in any empirical juxtaposition, the romantic world of Romeo and Juliet. We are living in a real, but changed world, a world in the cusp of collapsing values and eroded sense of the divine, where political ideologies have been allowed to bleed into the sacrosanct realm of freedom and personal beliefs. In its contorted, mindless search for appeasement and pursuit of the liberal dogma, it is a world that condemns any allusion to beliefs and practices that it deems prejudicial. But while that attitude may contend to advance oneness and tolerance, it is a mindset that hinges in hypocrisy for it distances itself from Christian values while embracing the loud dissenting voices of the opposition. Sadly, we live in a society that, by and large, continues in its headlong march to spiritual destruction... because it has forgotten God!

The Christmas tree may seem an expendable trapping of the season, but it nevertheless represents something of spiritual import. No, it is not a tree of an unnamed holiday. It is a CHRISTMAS TREE! For centuries, it has been associated with the celebration of the birth of the Savior of the world. It exalts the coming of the Messiah, the Son of the living God, with decorations symbolic of love, unity, brotherhood, spiritual redemption. The tree itself, standing straight in a heavenward thrust, represents humanity's desire for the divine and the infinite. Usually a stately evergreen of the conifer variety, the Christmas tree, with its green color signifies man's hope for eternal life. The star, prominently displayed at its top, represents the promised Savior to the world and the light that heralded his coming that fateful, holy night in a lowly manger in Bethlehem. The Savior's advent into a world of sin is his condescension to mortality and the single, most important event, then and ever will be, in the history of mankind. He is the Promised Messiah from a loving Father. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him may not perish, but have everlasting life"- John 3:16.

The Christmas tree's call for spiritual recollection does not end with the symbolic star. We hang on it ornaments and other adornments to remember Christ, the perfect gift. We decorate the tree in red, the first color of Christmas, which proclaims in man's callous heart the blood that redeemed him in Jesus' atoning sacrifice. The bell ornament represents a call to the lost sheep to follow Christ, the true Shepherd, while the candy cane reflects the Shepherd's crook which he uses to gather the lambs that strayed from the fold. The bow reminds us of the bond of perfection, which is love, while the wreath, which is a circle without beginning nor end, signifies eternity and the enduring nature of Christ's love.

Christmas tree or Holiday tree: Does it matter? What is really in a name? Is the nondescript allusion to the season not enough? Should we not just bow out from this ongoing, contentious discourse and let the politically correct mentality prevail? "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places" -Ephesians 6:12.

But while conformity is a virtue in many respects and is an antithesis to discord, the term we use to identify an object connected to things we believe in has broader and deeper significance than meets the eye. When we abandon our principles and beliefs to bow and acquiesce to societal demands to conform, we lose a part of who we are. It destroys self-respect; it chafes the soul; it corrodes the spirit, because it is wrong! Yes, it's just a Christmas tree, but yet, calling it any other name will be tantamount to stripping the importance of that sacred gift of long ago heralded by a heavenly messenger who earnestly announced: "Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ The Lord"-Luke 2:10-11.

So more than preserving the word, "Christmas Tree", this season and in all the seasons following, I will declare without reservation a greeting from the heart. At the risk of being called politically incorrect by those who do not subscribe to my way of thinking, I will shout it from the rooftops of my Christian soul and proclaim it from the hallowed pinnacle of my faith. I hope you do the same. MERRY CHRISTMAS; MERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS, my friends!

What's in a name? My faith, my truth, my testimony!

2015-05-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

"A FIFTY-YEAR SILENCE"

The book, “A Fifty-Year Silence”, could have been drab and cold; it could have been an average, run-of-the mill account of two lives haphazardly drawn together by unforeseen circumstances in a relationship that did not last. It could have been a drawn out, boring read that would have induced the onset of a long, soporific state on the reader. But the genius of the author's story-telling that breathed life into the otherwise hollow years of her two reticent and evasive characters, the snatches of the geo-political and social unrest pervasive on the holocaust years that she injected into the drama of her grandparents' personal lives, as well as the adept way she blended her present, intercontinental world into the unknown world of her grandparents, made this story remarkable.

This true account was a labor of love that sought to uncover the mystery of another love long dead. As the author tried to unmask the events that brought her grandparents, Anna and Armand, together as well as the sad circumstances that pulled them apart and eventually severed the flimsy emotional thread that bound them, she discovered a physical connection that ironically, both of them would not give up – an old, ruined, stone house in rural France. Apparently, Anna bought it with Armand's money (according to him) after the second world war, then five years later, she walked out on him bringing their two young children. Anna, fed-up with her husband's moroseness and seeming indifference, failed to comprehend the demons that plagued him. Armand, unable to shake off the survivor's guilt and horrors of the holocaust that were intensified as he listened to the testimonies on the Nuremberg Trials, became a victim to the dreadful ghost of the past. It consumed him and cost him and Anna a chance for a future life together. At their own choosing, they never spoke or saw each other again until the end of their lives. That fact alone would have been depressing. The bitterness that robbed the author's grandparents the chance to reconnect and forgive each other could have been this novel's undoing. But the author fashioned each event as a way to associate those two mercurial characters caught in the wave of their own hatred in the strong bond of family through her. Her love and dedication that fueled her research, her effort and imagination to bring her grandparents' story to life, as well as her dogged desire to maintain the family bond she had on both sides, were remarkable indications of her affection for both of her complicated, embittered grandparents. She was the catalyst that moved this story through the portals of a great memoir. I thought it is a fitting ending to this story that as she tried to reconstruct the history of a love affair two generations past with the ruined house as a backdrop, a new love was born and smoldered from those same ruins– hers and Julien's, the man she later married.

I love the elegant prose, the clever, innovative way the author blended the complex past and the volatile present in a journey of discovery, so I am putting a five-star stamp on this enthralling memoir.

I received this book from “Blogging For Books” for this review.

TWILIGHT (At Lone Mountain Park)

2015-05-12T21:53:00.000-07:00

TWILIGHT
(At Lone Mountain Park)

Arrayed in waning rays of fire
From the sun's fading sheen,
The grayish earth, the desert's blooms
Beneath the dappled hills.

The brown- patched grass from winter's clasp,
Reclaiming greens of velvet patch;
As buds of Spring, in hues of gold
In rhythmic ancient dance unfold.

The undulating twists and turns,
The stars that loom above,
While shadows form and hail the night
As darkness firms its grasp.

The pallid, distant moon of May
Watches from its forlorn perch,
While whispered notes, in voiceless song
The breeze, in offering, makes.

A place serene, where souls can heal,
I walk its tranquil paths
And find a borrowed peace that calms
The aches of grieving heart!

-ncr/2015-

"I WAS COMPLAINING I HAD NO SHOES...."

2014-11-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

It was early Autumn, a few days before the end of September. The slowly ebbing heat of the mid-afternoon sun still cast an uncomfortable residual warmth from the scorching summer. The traffic was agonizingly slow on the four-lane thoroughfare that I decided to take on my way home from an errand. As we stopped for a traffic light, my thoughts unwittingly wandered to some painful, often-visited path of late that churned out unintended- yet expected- consequences: sadness, tears, sorrow. It was an exercise in futility to completely ward off those feelings when they hit and inadvertently, I had to give in to the unleashed hills and valleys and eventual plateaus of emotion. Never one to feel sorry for myself before, a recent personal tragedy shattered my equilibrium and left me reeling from the blow. That day, as those painful thoughts began to consume me, I was distracted by something on the street ahead, a human drama of somebody else's pain.

I could have easily ignored her, a young, white woman dressed in a brown, hooded jacket with a loose, white-speckled beanie on her head. Stray blonde locks escaped on the sides of her face. She was of moderate height, with faded jeans hanging on her thin frame that the baggy jacket failed to completely hide. Walking toward the stopped cars, she was holding an off-white cardboard that caught my attention. It was a hand-written sign that the glare of the sun half-obliterated from my view but I was able to make out the last word: "food". Sights such as this were commonplace in some streets in town but something about this young woman stirred in me a feeling I could not quite define. Pity? Sadness? She looked straight and her eyes bore that distant, almost detached stare. For somebody who was panhandling, she seemed disinterested to take alms as she held her sign below waist level. Her face did not show that hardness often obvious from those who had been on street life for a long time. Rather, there was that almost shy softness,  a haunted, far-away look, like those of a reluctant soul in hopeless, painful expose'. She was walking two lanes away on my right side and as I reached for my purse for some change, I did not know how I could get her attention. My dilemma was resolved when the traffic started moving and she went to the sidewalk farther away from me to dodge the oncoming vehicles. That was the last I saw of her but that scene of human despair stayed with me as a profound lesson in gratitude.

November is almost synonymous to Thanksgiving. Although gratitude to the Lord should always be a part of one's daily worship, this feeling of being blessed by His tender mercies seems more acutely felt and deeply acknowledged on Thanksgiving month. There is a festive aura that surrounds this time of the year enhanced by the cool, crisp air and the blissful panorama of multi-colored leaves reflecting the soft, burnished glow of the mild autumn sun,  things that afford us a more profound spiritual reflection  about the timeless and the infinite.

One's conjured image of Thanksgiving would  always ostensibly feature the warmth and love of family and friends surrounding a table laden with food. It is a time for fun, laughter, togetherness, gratitude. Those blessings should dispel all negative emotions, if only for a day. But the feeling of gratitude when cultivated and expressed daily, would transport our emotions to a higher plane, not just for the moment. As I thought about that young woman and her plight, I prayed for her, and my gratitude for all of my life's abundant blessings was immensely renewed. Who was she? What were the unfortunate events and circumstances that drove her to such life in the streets? Where were her parents, her loved ones? There was a quote I learned as a youth that vividly came to mind as I contemplated on the dichotomy of life: "I was complaining I had no shoes, until I saw a man (woman) who had no feet." How often do we mistakenly magnify our own needs and pain when they could easily be eclipsed by countless human sufferings all around us? Without warning, I heard loud and clear the Scriptures' gentle voice that touched my errant soul: "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." - Matt. 11:28-30 -

The proverbial November of one's life need not be staid and desultory for it holds a cornucopia of blessings all its own. Our halcyon days of spring and summer should have left in their wake a feeling of contentment and peace allowing us to instinctively sever that anachronistic link to things that are less important in designs of eternal significance.  That, I would attempt to remember as I resolutely cling like an enduring leaf to life's cold winter. As I take an inventory of those priceless tender mercies from a loving Father, I would endeavor to once again hear the reassuring voice of the Spirit and its eternal promise: For "my burden is light". Then in quiet retrospection, I would look back to that fateful autumn day and remember that young woman with the brown hooded jacket and a speckled beanie on her head. With a heart full of gratitude, I would again imagine that haunting countenance of hopelessness and offer a prayer for her who had unknowingly taught me one of life's greatest lessons, she "who had no feet"!

(My Response to An APIA - Asian and Pacific Islander American - Ad)

2014-10-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

Ms. Chen,

I understand APIA’s disappointment on the Supreme Court ruling that allows the State of Texas to enforce its Voter ID Law in the upcoming election. I even understand the sentiments of the APIA members, their reasons for wanting .. or wishing… a reversal of such decision. Truth be told, I admire the organization’s efforts to be a powerful advocate for the rights of Asian American and Pacific Islanders in the ever-expanding political and social arena of the United States.

However, as an Asian-American myself, I fail to understand why the enforcement of the Voter ID Law in Texas, or anywhere else for that matter, would be detrimental to the goals and objectives of your organization. I fail to understand how you and leaders like you, have sidestepped the fact that voting, although it has always been touted as a right, is a sacred privilege! We earn that privilege in a legal, unbiased way as we become citizens of this country according to its established laws. When we circumvent those laws, when we demand the rights and privileges earned by law-abiding Americans for ourselves as we hide under the broken umbrella of racism and equality and political correctness, we break those very laws of which protection we demand. In other words, we become self-serving hypocrites!

As I listened to the perspectives voiced by the leaders of the APIA community, I heard words such as, “ political power, opportunities, engaging in issues, participation, advocacy,” etc. I admire the platform in which you stand and your dedication to the improvement of the Asian-American influence in this country’s political spectrum. However, you need to emphasize and never forget that we are bound, not by our desire to be in equal footing with everyone, but by the higher law of the land – the United States Constitution! If you disregard the importance of the Voter ID which should establish everyone’s legal right to cast his/her vote as a citizen of the United States, then your organization becomes an advocate for fraud and dishonesty and you trample the right of law-abiding Americans that they have earned legally. You will probably cling to the reasoning of the far-left that the enforcement of the Voter ID Law is a deterrent that would drive those who want to vote away from the polls because ID’s are hard to obtain. But let me tell you something: A lot of us, immigrants, have managed to pass through the “eye of the needle”, so to speak, to come to the United States. We have experienced privations, untold hardships, worked very hard, some even have defied threats to life and limb, to enjoy the promise of the American dream. If we have experienced and overcome those untold challenges, would you care to tell me how a simple trip to an ID issuing facility so we would have the right to be a voice that would shape this country’s destiny would be such a hard, insurmountable chore? Would you care to let me know how, by demanding that we do away with such law, we can ensure that the right of those who are legally allowed to vote are protected and preserved? Would you also care to tell me how your organization could encourage its members to be civically engaged when they could not even secure a necessary indicator that proves they could exercise their voting right as a citizen of this country? I would venture to declare that only those who have less than principled motives or those who are less engaged would use the difficulty of obtaining an ID as a crutch to voting rights.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity, as an Asian-American, though not a member of your organization, to speak up. With all due respect, I hope I do not become a party to the erosion of the laws of the country that I love and embrace as my own, the United States of America. Along with that hope is my prayer that those whose motives are stellar, but whose means are misguided – I venture to say, like your organization – would be encouraged to re-think the issues they espouse and support.

Sincerely,

Norma Rivera

"All that is necessary for the growth of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke

"Hello, My Name Is GRIEF!"

2014-09-01T13:28:00.000-07:00

They call me GRIEF. Like many of the branded "woes" of your dystopian universe, I am a great equalizer. Free to roam in the infinity of time, I spare no one, fear no man, and don't play favorites. I move with stealth and cunning and can easily creep into anyone's peaceful existence undetected. Some people unwittingly invite me into their lives as I lay hidden in sugar-coated array of destructive choices. But I need no invitation, unknowingly or otherwise, for my role is woven into the maze of the fabric you call "life". You don't often see me as you wander aimlessly in the easy, happy, uncluttered confines of your night and day or even as you journey in the dark haze of life's busy, rough, complicated tunnels. But I am there; make no mistake, I am there.

Once I identify my victim, I waste no time to launch my merciless claim. I strike without pity and come to you safely concealed in varied cloaks - illness, poverty, accidents, relationship problems, loss of a loved one in that end of life called death. Ah, death! How easily can I disturb your peace as I gain a sudden access when life is snatched away by that unseen hand.

I come to you and linger for as long as you unsuspectingly let me.    More than that, I am not alone. Like a soldier ready for battle, I am prepared with an arsenal of weapons that can destroy - pain, tears, guilt, anger, and depression. I use them without mercy in my ruthless quest for the real you. So I use the tender fringes of your emotion to taunt you as you evoke self-pity; I haunt you with the lyrics of an old, half-remembered song; I thrust the sharp dagger of pain in your heart with every twinge of some unspoken guilt; I use tears of regret in every speck of memory of him who is not coming back. Oftentimes, I strike when you least expect me for I know how vulnerable you are. I see you - wearing that familiar smile looking at some old family pictures, or sitting peacefully with a novel in your hands, or exchanging funny stories with friends while visiting some foreign shores, and I am unable to spare you. I watch you alone, quietly listening to the sounds of life outside your home, walking with easy strides enjoying nature's beauty in some neighborhood park,  interacting in a seeming happy mood with your family, and I strike you with pain, remorselessly and without pity. You know I am there as you let the tears flow, as you search in vain for someone you will never see and feel again, as you look at everything that had been a part of that life that is no more.  I creep noiselessly into your day as you watch the bright sunlight unfold its rays across the cyan sky, or even as you listen to the deep silence that hugs that eddy of pain in a dark moonless night. No, I cannot let you go. Not yet. Oh no, not yet! For I have not completed the mold of who you must be that I must present to Him that sent me.

Wisdom. I must fashion it into that mold. Encrusted beautifully with that fine ingredient and embedded with grace and charm into what you must be, I can walk away with pride for I have taught you the lesson you must learn. I would have confirmed what the scriptures say: "For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." - Ecclesiastes 1:18. Aeschylus, the Greek dramatist who is often cited as the father of the genre called Tragedy, basically said the same thing: "He who learns must suffer. And even in our own sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." Wisdom. Ah, how you need to incorporate it into who you are! I am sorry for my draconian approach to school you but I am not made for the amorphous and easy.  I wish I do not have to visit your days with a seeming interminable glut of searing pain and tears but you must learn wisdom and discover who you really are. Then, and maybe only then, can I bid you goodbye.

Yes, my name is Grief. I seem cruel and callous to everyone I meet - the simple and the weak, the smart and the strong, the short-sighted or the clever, the bold or the meek, the saint or the sinner. I know no age nor season and I am no respecter of persons.    I am ruthless; I have no mercy and in no time I can destroy the weak. But hold on before you pass that harsh indictment that comes so easy to one who has not yet discovered my true purpose. I am life's tool for instruction and learning. I am the hideous mask that conceals that magnificent instrument that will uncover the best in you as God's beautiful creation, if you let me. I can destroy, but I can also build and thus magnify the tiny fragments of divinity within you, if you allow me. Yes, I am Grief, but I am not your foe. Learn the lesson I am sent to teach you to earn your liberty. When you do, like a trapped butterfly in a hard, confining cocoon of pain, you will soar triumphantly to a starlit galaxy of joyous realization that you, the imperfect you, have overcome and won.   Then and only then will l say: " Fly, fly, for now at last you're free!"

The Plan

2014-04-02T07:17:00.001-07:00

THE PLAN

I said "hello" to yesterday, stood at the threshold of the Past,

And peeking through its boarded door the shadows came to life.

Dark, misty cloud of memories hang heavy in the air,

I saw myself in all the gloom uncertain and bereft.

Obscured in all that smoky mass the Past beckoning on,

To listen to the song of dreams once anchored to my soul.

The Past, its haggard countenance kindly urging me still,

"Look up, I have another face and Future is its name!"

Then came across some faces known with names beyond recall

I stared through time remembering old pain, old love, old song.

I shifted through the memories and found its hidden depth,

The labyrinth of bygone hopes crushed cruelly beneath.

But once again that voice rang sure though feeble it might seem,

I heard once more, through all the years, the Past whispered my name.

"The path is lonely, long and rough but Future will redeem,

Forget me not, I teach with grief and sorrow laced with pain."

"For I am life's unfailing hand on lessons all must learn,

I am the Past, I'll compensate for forlorn paths unseen.

Taskmaster of your destiny, I'll push and prod you on,

But you must build from sacrifice, each piece your stepping stone."

I sought in vain to understand the price I had to bear.

Defiantly, I railed at life for recompense unfair.

In my shortsighted, simple mind I failed to understand,

That life forges iron to steel through fire of sacrifice.

From the anvil of afflictions once hated, once despised,

I saw the mighty hand of Him whose lessons lift and guide.

And then I knew the yesterdays, the Past from which I ran,

Is my today I face with strength for God showed me The Plan!

A TIME TO PAUSE AND REMEMBER

2013-11-22T11:05:00.001-08:00

Fifty years ago today, a supreme act of evil found its mark and extinguished a glowing fire of hope as the bullet of hate felled its target. On that ill-fated day - November 22, 1963 - the shot that pierced the collective consciousness of the world carried a shroud of darkness that enveloped us all. The great leader of the free world became a martyr to the cause and the world mourned, not only for the man, but for itself. His years in office were not an age of utopia, for such was a fool’s fancy, but it was a time of hope, it was a period of great expectations, it was an era that showcased the best of America - its encompassing leadership, its enviable grace and class, the richness of its history and the refinement of its culture. The bullet that shattered his mortal shell ricocheted full circle and demolished humanity’s hopes and dreams for a better world. Those hopes, those dreams, could only be pinned on the lapel of a true leader, but one such man only came once in a lifetime. Much too early he was snatched away, leaving us in the throes of loss and pain, by an assassin’s bullet. In one swift, abominable second of supreme hate, the mortal became immortal and all that was left was our bitter-sweet recollection of those “years of lightning, day of drums”.

From the outset, his presidency was one that exemplified selfless service. "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country", was not an empty rhetoric to garner undeserved approbation from an obsequious world. It was his mantra, his own brand of progressivism, a call to undo the shackles of poverty and usher in self- sufficiency for the countries of the third world. Through his "Alliance for Progress", he deployed an army of volunteers, the peace corps, that brandished, not the weapons of war, but the brawn, intelligence, and might of America as well as its spirit of generosity and goodwill. And with that uncommon style of leadership, a reluctant world that prized action more than the ring of empty words was won. But it was not to last. For Dallas was waiting.

JFK - we still feel the loss. Today, let us pause and remember him and what he tried to offer: true hope that we swaddle inside the sparkling package of legends; optimism, that go beyond wishful thinking and wrapped in the assuring cloak of competent leadership. We still feel our loss because our hope for a better world remains elusive, something no one seems unable to fully restore in the heart and mind of humanity after it was left bludgeoned and incapacitated by the bullet of hate on November 22, 1963. Are we just left with the dying embers of that raging fire of hope, that one shining, "Camelotian" moment? We can only keep our fingers crossed.

JFK, we salute you - the man, the leader, the hero, our one brief, shining moment of hope!

BRUSH STROKES OF THE DIVINE

2013-09-20T01:20:00.000-07:00

For lack of a compelling evidence to the contrary in the court of public opinion, I think I can safely defend the popular notion that travel is the best form of education. Travel has always fascinated me, not only for the experience, but for affording my insatiable curiosity with an avenue to discover, for the opportunity to enhance intellectual growth that only a personal encounter, aided by visual and tactile familiarity, can completely satisfy. Travel is liberating, emotionally and otherwise, for it gives us a perspective on people, places, and things that broadens our self-understanding and enlarges our here-to-fore limited view of the world. For most of us, there is that need to be "there", to explore, to see, to know, and thereby establish a connection to something. There is in me that desire for adventure as well as a yearning to learn what was, to understand what can be. Travel graciously offers those possibilities... and more.

Sometime in July, one of my friends emailed me a tour company's website advertising a number of bus tours to different parts of the country including one that went to different national parks - Yellowstone, The Arches, Mt. Rushmore, Grand Teton, etc. A friend from high school was coming from the Philippines in September and I thought it would be a great opportunity for her to see those tourist attractions in the country. I had not been to those places either because, when planning a vacation, I always opted to go abroad - Europe or the Mediterranean - thinking I could always go to those "local" places anytime. So after relaying my plan to my friend as well as to another high school friend who also resided in Vegas, we decided to book the tour.

For seven days on the first week of September, we crisscrossed seven states in the West Coast and the Midwest of the great continental U.S. Our first visit was to a place where the footprints of time had been etched in a wonderland of varied colors, shapes, and sizes, which left us in awe: The Arches. We marveled at the incredible sandstone formations and soaring natural arches dotting the vast arid landscape of this Moab, Utah phenomenon. The day was blisteringly hot but it showcased the beauty in stone all around us to perfection.

We left the area in mid-afternoon and after hours of travel, we reached Denver, Colorado where we spent the night. Crazy Horse and Mt. Rushmore monuments in South Dakota were our next day stop. Our tour guide stoked our tradition-loving spirits as he recounted the story of the monument to Crazy Horse, the legendary Lakota Indian leader. The still unfinished stone memorial, dubbed as the world's largest mountain structure, aimed to honor the culture and traditions of North American Indians. Mt. Rushmore, on the other hand, immortalizing the likeness of four past U. S. presidents - Washington, Jefferson, T. Roosevelt, and Lincoln - stirred within us a different fire. Seeing those familiar faces of greatness carved in granite would easily awaken even the most latent patriotic fervor in most, something that would invariably segued to a prayer for deliverance of this great but now beleaguered nation. But gratitude remained for what we still had, for the lessons of the past we hoped we were still capable to learn from the legacy of those honored leaders immortalized in stone.

The next day, we were off again enjoying the scenic miles of green valleys and untamed mountain ranges that seemed to beckon to us. Then came Yellowstone National Park, wild, gigantic, diverse, outrageously stunning in a natural, unpretentious way. From its numerous geothermal, steam-spewing geysers to its vast landscape of towering trees and cascading waterfalls, Yellowstone was nature at its best, and we were hooked! We soaked in the timeless beauty of Old Faithful, the most famous geyser of the park, as it erupted at regular intervals. We stalked the park's wildlife from a distance - elks, bison, deer, etc, - to get a photo for posterity as they grazed nonchalantly along established paths. We hovered in fascination at the gurgling hot springs emitting sulphuric vapors as we traveled the meandering boardwalks of the park and wondered at the secrets hidden in the deceptive depth of its enormous lake that seemed to tease and lure us with its placid grandeur. Spending the night in a hotel just outside the park, we were up early to avail ourselves of the iconic beauty of a Yellowstone morning. Early day at Yellowstone was like stepping into an ancient fantasyland of pristine, quiet landscape with steam from boiling pools fogging the winding paths that were still covered in semi-darkness. It reminded me of those long-ago days of my childhood when life offered simple joys such as the sound of nature waking from its slumber. Ah, but that was from another world, from a distant time, thoughts unearthed from a growing cache of half-buried memories. Strange how the slowly ebbing penumbra of a Yellowstone dawn could send someone to an unintended excursion to the past.

Leaving Yellowstone after our morning stroll, our tour bus headed to our next destination, Jackson Hole, Wyoming. After a couple or so hours on the road, we stopped at a place called Jackson Lake Lodge to take pictures and use the lodge's facilities. The place had a cavernous hall with full-length picture windows overlooking a backyard garden and a wide, open field beyond. A few minutes before the scheduled time to go back to the bus, I noticed people lugging out their cameras and taking pictures through the windows. As I came closer, I saw an awesome, heart-stopping sight: The majestic Grand Teton with its rocky, craggy points emerging through a veil of thick, white, lazily gliding clouds! It presented such a captivating, surreal beauty that sang to the spirit and transcended the common and mundane, a phantasmagoric phenomenon right before my eyes. As I watched that incredible spectacle, that mesmerizing display of a cosmic drama of light and colors, I felt I was viewing a piece of heaven. The Grand Teton, with the undulating clouds playing within its base, shimmered under the sultry blanket of the golden sun. In the foreground spread a sea of green forest that seemed to compete with the azure blue of the tranquil sky. Never had I seen nature in such spell-binding splendor. Reluctantly leaving that grand display of nature's wonder, I headed for the tour bus with the rest of the group thinking that was the last time I would see it. But the Teton range was visible along the way and seemed to follow us through miles of vast wilderness displaying the pastoral beauty of the Wyoming countryside. I tried to capture the Grand Teton's arresting radiance in film but every shot gave me an unsatisfactory, frustrating result as it failed to encapsulate the mountain's majestic quality. But undaunted, before such panoramic vista dissolved into the towering green heights of pines and deciduous trees, I safely tucked and preserved it in the sentimental - but mayhap less enduring - photograph of the mind.

Jackson, Wyoming was a quaint little town that sat like a sentinel where tourists had to go through before entering the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. It boasted a steep, imposing ski slope that would be hard to miss even at the hilt of a mid-day September summer. The day was particularly busy and somehow festive due to the presence of vendors lining the main street to sell their goods in the once-a-month Farmer's Market that catered to both locals and tourists. One of Jackson's attractions was the Elk Antler arch in the center of town where memorabilia enthusiasts crowd to take personal photos. Jackson did not have the sophistication and ultra-modern feel of big cities but the old-town charm and traditional appeal that seemed to have sadly vanished in more contemporary areas continued to be its mainstays.

We went through Idaho as we traveled back to Utah which would be the last state we would pass before the conclusion of the tour. The overcast sky that slowly formed before we entered Idaho foreshadowed the torrent of rain that burst on and off as we came close to Salt Lake City. It was almost dusk when we reached our hotel and the rain had slowed down to a light shower then finally stopped which was a blessing, because my two daughters, who both resided south of Salt Lake City, came with their husband and children to see me.

We set out at 7:00 AM the following day to visit the Great Salt Lake, the State Capitol, and Temple Square. The rain returned after a brief respite on the previous night and the sky was overcast. Although not a heavy downpour, prolonged exposure to it would surely drench us so we donned our hat and sweater before venturing out. We stopped at a little marina in the Great Salt Lake and braved the rain for some pictures, then continued on to downtown Salt Lake. The traffic was very light and the streets looked deserted, not only because it was relatively early but also because it was Sunday. The Mormons (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints), which constitute more than 50% of Utah's inhabitants, follow a strict observance of the Sabbath law and do not open business establishments on Sunday. Temple Square houses the buildings and structures of the church with the temple as its centerpiece. Sister missionaries greeted us after we entered the square and we were given a tour of some of its buildings. I had visited the place countless times before being a member of the church and was pretty familiar with its layout and since we were a big group, I kind of assisted the others who were lagging behind where to go. The missionaries gave us a tour of some of the buildings like the Tabernacle, which was the home of the famed Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and the Assembly Hall. A brief history of the church was also presented by the missionaries especially the story of the Mormon pioneers and their faith-based sacrifices that built that great state and other surrounding settlements in the 1800's.

The highlight of that Temple Square tour for me, then and as always, was our visit to "The Christus" on the second floor of the North Visitors' Center. For this particular trip, it was the climax and denouement in one reflective, flowing synthesis. The 11-foot statue of Jesus Christ by the Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen, was an imposing single presence in a dome structure surrounded by a mural of heavenly bodies depicting the creation. Being there with the statue of the Savior standing in a solemn, majestic pose as the world outside continued on its swirl, was a choice experience. It was a moment when the physical and the spiritual sense of this earthly experience seized one's limited understanding to infuse the profound meaning we all need to learn. That solitary moment was a fitting ending to that seven-day journey that stirred my sense of awareness and appreciation for his glorious and magnificent handiwork. Unequal in majesty and grandeur by anything fashioned by man, those stunning vistas of mountains and lakes, green forests, tumbling waterfalls and quiet brooks, were constant reminders of the boundless love of a Supreme Being, one whose divine brush strokes from his palette of vibrant colors created a spell-binding beauty that gave us a glimpse of the glories that awaited us in his eternal home. And I marveled at his grace and tender mercies as my spirit genuflected in praise and immense gratitude while my heart sang, "Hallelujah, praise the Lord".

"O YOUTH FOREGONE, FOREGOING!"

2013-07-04T00:34:00.000-07:00

One rain-soaked morning last month, I had the opportunity to visit Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut with my family and was given a special tour of its vast grounds and historical buildings by my nephew, a recent graduate of that prestigious institution. The day was relatively cool and the soft shadows cast by the dappled sunlight as they broke through the trees lining the university's sidewalks gave an aura of peace. There was a smattering of residual grayish clouds from the rain of the previous night but the sunlight seemed to be winning the battle to dominate. There were only a few students we spotted on campus being a semestral break so it was quiet and our stroll unencumbered by crowds. I was impressed by the serene ambiance of its campus as well as the stately grandeur and the unique architecture of its buildings for which the university was famous. The luxuriant green of its immaculate grounds seemed to be in keeping with the fertile minds that passed through its aged halls and even its mighty gates seemed to breathe with the power and exalted air of American academia. My nephew, an excellent tour guide, recounted the history of the buildings, the works of art, as well as the monuments dotting the grounds in conspicuous locations.

I did not expect that my experience visiting this 300-year old academic behemoth, despite its prominence, would yield anything remarkable. After all, I had been to other prominent institutions of learning before. But I was wrong, and looking back, it was something worthy of a July 4th reflection. For brevity's sake, I would not comment about every area we visited but only on those relevant to the subject at hand.

Renzo, my nephew, "introduced" us first to Dwight Woolsey who served as Yale's longest president. Apparently, there was a tall tale that rubbing his left foot would bring luck so I thought I would put it to the test.

One of Yale's buildings was named after him - Woolsey Hall - and it was one of those we visited. From its outside appearance, nothing set it apart from the other buildings of this famed university. But inside, I was struck by something extraordinary. The entrance to its main room was flanked on opposite sides by walls of names. Interestingly, they were not the names of Yale's most notable alumni that sat or served in the country's political power structure. Neither did it include the Nobel Laureates that passed through its doors, nor of the 19 justices that graced the mighty U.S. Supreme Court, not even those of the 5 U.S. Presidents that were surely the prototype of this Ivy League university's intellectual elitism. No, those walls bore the names of less prominent Yale alumni, if prominence was measured in terms of power or prestige, but they gave something far more precious to the country they loved, for they gave it their all - their life. Etched on those walls of marble were ordinary names of men that performed extraordinary feats of valor. They were Yale's priceless contribution to the cause of freedom, heroes that fought and died in the wars that America was involved in. On the threshold to the hall, in between these hallowed walls of names, were these words:

"To the men of Yale who gave their lives in the service of their country during the great world wars. The university has dedicated this memorial that their high devotion may pass to others as a living fire.

O youth foregone, foregoing!

O dreams unseen, unsought!

God give you joy of knowing

What life your death has bought."

As we continued our tour, a monument to another icon of patriotism came into view - the Nathan Hale statue. "I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country." Inscribed in bronze on the base of the statue, these stirring last words captured the courage and defiance of this youthful hero of the American Revolutionary War. Standing in front of Yale's Connecticut Hall where he once resided, his likeness, perched proudly in a solemn, dignified stance, is a reminder of countless sacrifices offered by freedom-loving Americans for a cause greater than life. I stood beside the building with the marker bearing his name and reflected on his short life of 21 years that denied him of a future filled with promise and countless possibilities.

Yet Nathan Hale and the faceless men with names inscribed on the walls of Woolsey Hall are just among the millions of American heroes whose courage and love of country are the foundations that made America great. Their remains are not always encased in a vaulted tomb; their deeds are frequently not memorialized in cold marbles; their image are seldom depicted in a lonely plaque in some forgotten park. But their spirit, that raw, undaunted courage to fight for an ideal, to die for the truth they believe in, shines in the dark nights of tyranny to live once more in the hearts of patriots and free men. Like the mythical phoenix, that spirit of courage is reborn in any man who understands that freedom is an unalienable right from a Supreme Creator and not handed out in a random fashion according to the whims of power-driven despots.

America, the greatest country in the world, is a land borne of sacrifice and patriotism of its citizens whose greatest gift bestowed to generations of Americans is what we are celebrating today - FREEDOM! On this fateful day in 1776, fifty-six American patriots risked their safety, their fortunes, and everything they possessed for a cause and an ideal. Their sacrifice, stamped with their sacred honor and signed as a hallowed document is a cherished gift, our legacy to greatness. We have a solemn obligation to sanctify that gift, to consecrate that sacrifice thereby giving justice to numberless lives cut short, to tomorrows that never came, to the futures never redeemed. Today, let us celebrate freedom, knowing that in its sacred altar are the blood of heroes, and let us pledge:

O valiant souls, departed,

O sons of sacrifice.

We'll live your dreams, undaunted

In freedom's hall of might.

Yale University's tour was a wonderful, informative, edifying experience. But before too long, I would probably only retain part of that memory. I would cease to remember the subtle chill of the day, how the green, damp grass on its immense grounds felt under my feet, how the bright brick-encrusted walls of some of its buildings belied their age. I would forget the aura of age-old intellectualism that seemed to bounce off its library of ancient volumes that, for a book-lover like myself, presented an irresistible magnetic pull. One of these days, I would no longer recall the almost reverential awe I felt entering its massive gates. But there was one thing I would always remember: that through those gates heroes entered and departed and we are a free people because of them and others like them. Hopefully, like the magic luck from Dwight Woolsey's shoe, thinking about what they had given us would rub on some obscure patriotic spot in our heart and the lucky charm of freedom would never slip away from our grasp. Today, let us remember and honor those who fell in the dark of night. Let us pay homage to the selfless acts of valor of countless Americans from every walk of life who offered the ultimate sacrifice for our country that we might be blessed with a resplendent gift - freedom in all its brilliant facets! May we be worthy, I pray.

WHEN DREAMS MUST DIE

2013-05-18T01:06:00.001-07:00

(Taken on May 14, 2003, thirty years ago, on my pinning ceremony).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQ3VcW4z5gQ

"A wish is a dream your heart makes." As the music droned on from the soundtrack of a classic Disney movie when I was listening to the radio one day, the haunting melody and poignant words evoked some repressed memories. There is something about dreams, and wishes, and ideals that clings to the fringes of the emotion, especially the unfulfilled ones, and refuses to be expunged by time. Like an old, forgotten verse, once in a while, touched by some imaginary hand, they struggle to the surface where again they roam free and coax the mind to recollect, to remember, with an unbidden ache.

Childhood dreams may come and go. They can change as abruptly as they appear in the fickle and impressionistic mind of the young as they observe life and develop self-awareness. But to use age as a barometer to dreams that last will be grossly inaccurate. There are those dreams from long ago that may continue to dwell in some obscure corner of one's life and there they may stay like some aged jewels untarnished by time, though they may never find fulfillment. In the jostling match between dreams and reality, reality always wins for dreams are usually fantasies of the heart, some whimsical, romanticized version of what is valid and authentic. Such was my dream, perhaps.

It might come as a surprise to some if I said I never dreamed, much less wanted, to be a nurse. When I was growing up, some of the girls I knew talked about their ambitions, what they wanted to be when they grew up. I remembered that most of them were keen on pursuing a teaching profession and the others wanted to be a nurse for reasons more superficial, almost banal, rather than altruistic. They were drawn by the white, starched uniform and the nurses cap that during those times were the sartorial marks of the profession. As a child, I didn't think I had ever shown interest in those girly talks because I was leaning toward a less conventional pursuit for a female during the fifties. I could not recall my exact age when I decided I wanted to be a lawyer but as I got older, that dream intensified as I nurtured some idealistic perceptions of what the world should be, something devoid of injustice and where truth and righteousness reigned. In my dream, I was some sort of a female superhero defending the oppressed and the underprivileged who fell victims to the abuses of the justice system. As I entered high school, I developed an avid interest in government and the political process and excelled in those subjects, especially in college. I ran for leadership positions, participated in speaking contests, became a member of the oratorical and debating club in college and pursued extra-curricular activities that enhanced my critical thinking skills. Majoring in English as an undergrad in preparation to law school, I thought I was on my way to being an "avenging angel" to the falsely accused and dispossessed. But life propelled me to a fork on the road where I took another way leading to a different destination. I found it sharing a common thread with Robert Frost's poetic description:

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I took the divergent path with the decisiveness borne of necessity and with the full knowledge that it was leading me away from my dream. But a greater dream prevailed, one that involved the people I love most.

When we came to the United States, the youngest of our 3 children was 2 years old. The older 2 where of school age but our youngest would have to be left to a baby sitter if I had to work. I, therefore, looked for a job which would let me stay home with her during the day when my husband was working so I became a nursing assistant on graveyard shift in a long-term care facility. Six months into my job, I entered the nursing program in a local college to get my RN degree. Working full time and carrying a full load while also raising our children, I was told I was crazy. Two of my best friends in school encouraged me to stop working and just apply for financial aid like they did. They said I could not do it with that kind of load if I wanted to pass the tough RN curriculum. But my husband and I, both with our own share of idealism and stubborn pride, rejected the idea, agreed we did not want to be liabilities to the government so we shared the household responsibilities and made a lot of sacrifices. Those years were not a walk in the park, by any means, especially with the glut of responsibilities I carried. It was at a time like those that I realized I had to draw strength from a Power greater than mine. The last semester in the Nursing Program was the most nerve-wracking and students' apprehension and panic hang heavy in the air. Out of the 120 candidates for graduation, only 90 of us made it. The other 30 were held back for another semester for not passing the daunting Skills Test that was the most dreaded area of the finals. Successfully graduating in May 1983, I subsequently passed the NCLEX with flying colors the following July. I immediately landed a job in the oncology unit of a local hospital, was offered an ADON position 9 months after in another facility, and became the Director of Nursing one year after. Other opportunities for growth came after that which honed my clinical and management skills in different areas of nursing. As a nurse manager, I thrived in the challenges that tested my organizational and decision-making skills and I felt I found the niche in my career.

My "road less traveled" brought me to new avenues of learning and fulfillment while also providing my family with the financial stability needed in a new land. When our 2 oldest children went to college at the same time (our son was accelerated and finished high school in three years, thus, catching up with his sister), I worked 1 1/2 jobs so they would not be saddled with student loans after graduation. Although both had scholarships, there were other expenses associated with college that we needed to take care of. Aside from my husband's job, my profession provided us with a strong financial anchor so all our children went to college without incurring any debt. That was a tremendous blessing for people who prided in hard work and self-reliance.

The path I left untraveled still beckoned and I attempted to come back to that proverbial fork on the road. When our two oldest were still in college, I decided I would finally go to law school so I worked on all the necessary preparations - took my LSAT, got written recommendations from professionals in medical and legal professions, then applied for admission to one of Chicago's law schools, only to find out that I could not work on my freshman year. It was required that all freshmen be full-time students and sophomores could only work part-time. With two children in college, there was no way I could do that so the plan was dropped to my disappointment. Still, it did not deter me. After we moved to Las Vegas, one of the first things I did was check the local university but found out that the college of law was not yet opened. By the time it did open, I was again a nursing manager in one of the local facilities which I really enjoyed so the motivation to go back to school considerably lessened until I decided to just focus on my nursing career.

By and large, nursing has given me tremendous opportunities to serve others, that main driving force that kept my ambition to be a lawyer alive. Like an alternative to an unattainable first love, the nursing profession has grown on me as it provided me with a springboard to make a difference in the lives of those who have much to endure. Many a time, I have rejoiced with those who were fortunate to return to normal health, but on the same breath, I have come face to face with pain and suffering, stared in the sullen eyes of disease and ill health, gripped the cold hands of death as it claimed its victims and mourned with those who were left behind. I have learned empathy, nurtured my sensitivity to the plight of those who suffered and gained a deeper understanding of human nature that in turn, I hope, made me a better person. I have come to realize that nursing is the best school to cultivate what is human in all of us, that it is not merely a set of skills and knowledge that needs to be perfected, although it certainly would be a tremendous help in the performance of the tasks involved. But I have always believed it would not matter much if a nurse could start an IV blindfolded if her heart is cold. Nursing is much more than a set of vital signs or an expertise in a given skill; it is deeper than that. It is giving of yourself; it is drawing from the depths of humanity within you to alleviate the physical, mental, and emotional challenge of others with compassion. It is caring and loving, it is serving those who suffer as they deal with pain and try to cope with the nether side of life's strange dichotomies. It asks a lot, but it gives back by transforming the heart. I am a nurse and am grateful for that.

There is a time in a person's dream world when morning intrudes and shatters the sweet illusions of the dream. For me, the stars will probably remain untouched, the future wanting of expected glory. Reality, even with its dreaded ache and pain intensified by a sense of loss, must be faced in the aftermath, for morning will always come to chase the dream away. It is now time to wake up. Strangely, however, reality brings an esoteric satisfaction that the dream, even with all its illusory beauty and wonder, never will. Today, I face the sunlight with gratitude albeit with the grudging acceptance that there are things that will never be. But there are blessings gained at every turn, for dreaming, for hoping, for trying, blessings which make the goal, though incomplete, a victory half-won.

Today is my morning, when dreams must die.

Thoughts on Mother's Day: A Dual Tribute

2013-05-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

“You are the trip I did not take, you are the pearls I could not buy,

You are my blue Italian lake, you are my piece of foreign sky."

- Anne Campbell -

Softly fly the years! I look back and marvel at the miracles that are my children and become more aware of how life has truly blessed me. So on Mother's Day, as they honor me, I, in turn, want to honor them for the kind of persons they have become. As they remember me with special tokens and greet me on this special day, I want to let them know they honor me every day as they lead responsible and purposeful lives, as they live with integrity and decency and as they teach their children to follow the same ideals. They have given me a lot of love and reasons to rejoice through the years as well as a host of beautiful memories that add richness and meaning to a life that would have been drab and hollow otherwise. As I have taught them, they have taught me lessons embedded in experiences that children alone can teach in their very own special way. We have grown together as we explore life and the intricacies that come with each challenge conquered, with each hurdle overcome, with each memory created. We learn from each other, share common joys, shed tears of disappointments from some dashed uncommon hopes when life shows its imperfections, revel in each others successes and stand strong together to face the onslaught of life's storms. I love them dearly, not just because they are mine, but for what they have made of their lives, for being wonderful, strong, respectable human beings. And yet, even when stark realities rob one of satisfaction, a mother's love is unconditional and is not based on some hidden criteria for acceptance, neither is it dependent on some imaginary scale of determinants that confirm if someone made the grade.

My children: They are my warm sunshine in a winter morn, the melody to my unsung song, and when life is done, they will be my chevron, the badge I hope to return with honor to Him who loaned them to me with His sacred, loving trust. As I sing their praise, I also pay tribute to my Father in Heaven for His all encompassing love that saw me fit to be an instrument of creation to some very special spirits that gave meaning and fulfillment to my life.

ON CHILDREN

- Kahlil Gibran -

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children

as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,

and He bends you with His might

that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies,

so He loves also the bow that is stable.

This Mother's Day, I also want to pay homage to the person who gave me life, that special human being retrofitted with an infinite supply of patience and love that she was expected to dispense at any given moment without prior notice. She was that wretched soul who had the misfortune of being my mother (lol) because to say that I was a challenge as a child would be an understatement. My mother must have wings before she came down to earth or she would not have been chosen to raise me, a most willful, obstinate child whose troublesome exploits became legendary among my circle of relatives who watched me grew up.

But just in case anybody gets the wrong impression, I was not an evil child. I was just headstrong and stubborn and I loved to test my limit. When I was told not to do something, I would do it on purpose just for spite, and to aggravate my mother - bless her heart. By the time I was in grade school, I had broken every rule that started with "don't" but unfortunately, my mother never learned to eliminate that word when dealing with my behavior. As a child, "mischief" would be a most fitting nickname for me because I always looked for trouble. However, I would not expose myself any further by citing examples of my daring feats of misbehavior. In a lot of ways, I was grateful to my parents, especially to my mother, who tried to discipline me and taught me right from wrong but never attempted to break my spirit. Unwittingly perhaps, she nurtured my strength instead of clipping my wings. As I grew up, she stoked that spark of humanity that defined my values and my sense of fair play until I learned to curb and tame that inner fire smoldering within. She instilled in me, not so much in words, but by example, industry, honesty, and integrity. She taught me perseverance, faith, and tenacity, values I needed to fight the unseen monsters of despair and hopelessness in a world full of challenges. I want to thank her for everything she did for me, for her care, for her sacrifices, for her unfailing support and unshakeable faith in me as I sought to find my real substance as a human being and as a child of God. I am grateful to her for making me my own person that I became a "living arrow" in the "archer's hand" as I sought my destiny.

So today, I pay tribute to my mother and I want to let her know, as she looks down from that special place of peace and beauty that became her just reward for giving me life, that I love her, that I was immensely blessed that the Lord gave me a very special person to call "mother". Happy Mother's Day, Inay!

WHERE IS LOVE?

2013-04-30T00:23:00.000-07:00

I probably should stop reading the news and just hide in the quiet confines of ignorance and apathy. I should close my eyes and feign blindness as the world grapples with the ugliness that society heaps upon itself. I should be deaf to the cries of injustice that put a stranglehold to truth and civility. I should be inured and impassive to the glut of nonsensical and nefarious rubbish that foolish individuals spew out to dignify their risible outlook on issues that matter. After all, who am I? I can't change people and I'm powerless to change things.

The last couple of weeks were particularly hard and emotionally draining for a lot of people as the nation's security was again severely compromised. As the events in Boston flashed in the news media and brought to us in explicitly painful, graphic detail the carnage of innocent individuals, our sense of well-being was altered, our haven of peace was violated and we were left dazed in that precarious state of disbelief of what was true and glaringly real.

Prior to that event, the news started to cover the trial of an individual who hid behind the protective cloak of his profession to commit unspeakable, monstrous acts against the helpless human beings who were born, yet unborn, alive, yet dead, according to his warped and evil pronouncement.  In many ways, he was a career criminal, an executioner, a murder-for-hire monster who used his title to commit vile acts with impunity. Sanctioned by society and the band of individuals who championed the right to kill through abortion, this physician who swore to heal and protect life never flinched in his unconscionable rampage to deny the unborn the right to life even as they breathed, even as they helplessly cried, even as their tiny arms struggled to ward off his merciless hand as he snipped their spinal cord. These were not human acts by any stretch of the imagination. Animals behaved with more caring, intelligence and compassion.   As we contemplated these societal issues and problems that threatened to destroy the best in people, those values and feelings, and emotions that made us human, don't we wrestle to find the answer to the question, "Where is love"?

As we peel off that coating of respectability imbued by civilization, the essence of who we really are is well concealed within the sophisticated layers of refinement and culture.  Kindness, humanity, decency, integrity, and a myriad of other  values that we need to cultivate and nurture to be "quality" human beings cannot be developed outside ourselves albeit we can look up to others that we can emulate. But unless we actively practice those principles, they will lie forever dormant in the recesses of the soul. And love, that vital emotion that morphs from those values, will not have the chance to grow if we never provided that environment where it can thrive and evolve.

So where is love? The young boy, Oliver, in Charles Dickens' "Oliver Twist" desperately asked the same gut-wrenching question. Has our society lost that vital emotion to the cruel and callous disregard that other human beings frequently exhibit toward others? As I reflect on that question, the sense of gloom and doom that has initially wrenched my spirit to fill with rancor, is replaced by that supernal peace that only God can provide.   There comes that reassuring voice of the Spirit that soothes the soul like flashes of light in the midst of an encircling gloom.

Where is love? It is spoken in hushed tones of encouragement as rescuers lend a helping hand to the victims of the Boston bombing. It is in the unselfish acts of kindness of virtual strangers who open their homes to those who are searching for their loved ones amid the confusion of the day. It is displayed in many forms - in the clasped hands of an unidentified woman as she lifts her head towards the sky in prayer, in the heroic efforts of peacekeepers to find the culprits without regard for their personal safety, in the tears and prayers of a nation, even in the concern expressed by the global community through social media sites that gives the victims the assurance that they are not alone.

The recent unfortunate tragedy in Boston encapsulates society's caring side but it is not a solitary incident nor an unusual occurrence. It is demonstrated every day in quiet acts of kindness that do not clamor for recognition. It is there as neighbors help neighbors in many, many unheralded display of what is good and decent in all of us. The kindly deed of good Samaritans that come to the rescue of someone unfamiliar is love in action, that spark of the divine from Him who is love personified.  It is entrenched in kind words, in the warmth of a simple smile, in the comfort of a gentle touch.   We have been haplessly jaded by society's ills so when horrific things happen, cynicism, doubt, pessimism and hopelessness will sometimes inhibit us from seeing the beauty that is still present in the hearts of people. But when we endeavor to search deeper, down in the substratum of the spirit where the best in humanity is safely and firmly tucked in,  we will find that exquisite spark that will drive away the obsidian fiend of despair that threatens to destroy us. Then we will no longer ask and wonder, "Where is love"? For we can find it here, still living and beating mightily within us.

Let Me Gather Shards of Moonlight

2013-04-12T23:52:00.001-07:00

LET ME GATHER SHARDS OF MOONLIGHT

Let me gather shards of moonlight,

From the specter of lost dreams;

Let me wrap their fragile pieces

For the wonder just within.

Let me pick up shards of promise

From the shores of borrowed time;

Let me piece them all together,

Let me know they're truly mine.

I will mock the haughty raindrops;

I will dare the winter chill.

I'll defy the ruthless sunshine,

For the moonlight's mellow gleam.

Then with moonbeams glowing softly,

I'll search for the half-sung song.

I will tame the colored rainbow,

That I watched in awe so long.

I will chase the dreaded shadows

Lurking just beneath the gloom;

And with moonlight's guiding radiance,

Find the beauty and the song!

Meet Me In A Place Where Dreams Lie

2013-04-11T17:12:00.000-07:00

MEET ME IN A PLACE WHERE DREAMS LIE

Meet me in a place where dreams lie

Where the heart is free to roam,

Where life's sunset is the dawning

Of a lovely, tranquil morn.

Meet me in a place where music

Still plays its old refrain,

And the promise that it carries

Whispers to the soul again.

Meet me where the sun will linger

When forever parts with now;

Where the long and bright tomorrow,

Lights the path it left, somehow.

Tell me all the craved-for wonders,

All the echoes of lost time;

Let me hear the subtle musings

For the words that lost their rhyme.

Let me see a world that beckons,

To a soul that knows no rest;

Show me where the moonbeams carry,

Their soft balm of longed-for peace.

So meet me in a place eternal,

Guide me as I grope along;

Hold my hand to ward off sorrow,

For forever's love is long.

BEFORE THE FLOWERS BLOOM

2013-04-11T09:11:00.000-07:00

A classic rhyme from an old childhood poem has resurfaced from memory as I listen to the pattering noise a drenching rain inexorably carries. “April showers, bring May flowers”. Those who feel inconvenienced by a few heaven-sent drops of moisture or those who consider rain a juggernaut of nature, should regard it as a prelude to beauty, that germane hand that gives the brown earth its verdant, emerald blush in spring, the caring touch that nudges the buds to share their vibrant, colored blooms, or that unseen force that restores the hibernating vegetation to awaken in unabashed exultation of life.

The earth will be an unsightly stretch of drabness where beauty is nonexistent without that enviable power of rain to coax the colors to spring forth and breathe life to the spoils of winter. Invariably, it obscures that unfettered brightness of the sun as it scatters clouds overhead like a canopy of gray, cottony shield. There is soporific comfort in the rhythm of its incessant sound as it falls to the earth and the lure to wallow in its murky depths surprisingly affords a calming aura that sings to the soul. It exudes a transcendental beauty that needs to be felt rather than seen and only those who are inclined to uncover its hidden allure will truly understand its magic.

But rain has its cruel streak, an ugly side that can spell havoc and mayhem in its egregious, uncontrolled fury. It can segue from its docile, reticent nature to a leviathan, ferocious monster that leaves nothing inviolate. It is that masochistic force of nature that can punish and exact vengeance with impunity and these nefarious attributes, despite the scientific advances the world has seen, remain essentially untamed.

Beauty and ugliness: Are there better metaphors to life? As rain precedes the beauty of spring, there is that prescient hand that dispenses the refiner’s fire to cleanse the soul before its radiance can be revealed. The crucible of life, that testing furnace of affliction, enhances and hones us to uncover the polished entity that we are, that flawless spirit a loving Father assiduously fashioned in his loving, unerring hand.

“April showers, bring May flowers.” There is an unvarnished truth, both physical and divine, to this simple, incisive rhyme. Sorrow, trials and life’s storms – they are underpinnings to life, those elemental, strengthening factors that are indispensable to a strong and firm foundation where beauty needs to dwell like multi-colored blooms sprouting through the earth after a cleansing rain. Showers, rain, darkness – we need them to sober and soften us like the ground under our feet, before the flowers bloom.

CLASS REUNION

2013-03-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

Fifty years post high school graduation ! To put them in perspective, they're equivalent to 2, 600 weeks or 18, 250 days or 438,000 hours. Unequivocally, they spanned a lifetime and a reunion was in order. It was an event that was farthest from the minds of 49 young faces from Majayjay Standard Academy that marched to their high school graduation song on March 29, 1963. Their bright smiles and eager eyes were hopeful and excited for the future, for the chance to carve a niche in some hallowed walls in the great amphitheater of the world. They were fresh and brawny; they were full of dreams; they were smart, and they were ready. So each ventured to conquer their legacy to the future to the beat of their own drum. Most went on to explore less known horizons, others searched the beaten paths for golden opportunities, while some decided to stay on the solid and secure grounds of home.

The date was set for the 9th of March 2013 to gather and remember. The group had been broken with deaths and other personal catastrophies but the remaining members were excited and enthusiastic. Five of us who were based abroad initiated the preparations and corroborated with three members who resided locally. Due to the inadequate access to present communication methods, a lot of legwork was required to disseminate the information to those who resided locally but almost everyone that could be reached was informed. Eding Almonte and Minnie Gordula, both from Chicago, were unable to attend but they generously sent some monetary help since the expenses would be solely borne by those coming from abroad. A recent U.S. immigrant, Diorme Estebal, also expressed his regrets, as well as Amor Sobrevinas, a merchant marine. He was summoned to his ship to cover an emergency but also did not forget to send some funds. Robert Romero, Lita Arceta, Norma Urgel, Rollie Rondilla, and myself, were in frequent communication via email or phone and plans were relayed to Marino Sunga, Danny Oconer, and Necy Coprada who made sure that things were progressing on their end. As the day drew near, Lita flew in from Australia and she and Necy picked up Norma and me from the airport on March 5. Robert flew in from Guam on the same day and arrived a couple of hours later. We waited for him at the airport because we would be staying in his Antipolo house for a couple of days. Robert drove Necy's car after he instructed his brother to drive his car home and we reached Antipolo around midnight. After a lot of catching up on each other's lives and a midnight snack of hot pan de sal, we settled for the night. The next couple of days was a whirlwind of activities - going to Greenhills and other malls, pampering ourselves in a massage/spa nearby, but most of all, satisfying our palates with local gastronomic fares. We ate - and ate like gluttons - and my digestive system, not being used to such excesses, started to become uncomfortable.

On Thursday, we headed for Majayjay with Necy taking the wheels since Robert opted not to come until the next day. Norma Urgel and I stayed with Lita and her mom in their nice Origuel home and were treated with homegrown kindness and hospitality all throughout our stay. The word traveled fast about our arrival and there was a constant flow of visitors, mostly of old classmates who wanted to say hi and get updates about the reunion. The next day was spent finalizing things. Marino and Danny gave us a tentative head count and Lita followed up on the food order while I just oversaw things. I had the program ready and reviewed how things should flow with those who were involved. The weather concerned us a bit with sudden rains creating small puddles but we tried to conquer our apprehension and hoped we would be blessed with sunshine the next day.

A beautiful Majayjay morning greeted us with a subdued sunshine and a tolerable dose of humidity. Around 9 AM, we drove to the back of the church which was our gathering place. A few people were already there and the others showed up in Filipino time style, but the excited mood of the group made waiting endurable. The town fiesta was coming in three days so there were a lot of vendors selling their wares in makeshift tents lined along the main street in front of the church. There was a horde of pan handlers that included a number of children that followed us everywhere asking for alms. There were no beggars in town when I was growing up so I asked my friends why they were all over the place. I was told they were bused (by whoever) to towns having their fiesta so they were really not local. I was surprised at how aggressive they were because they were just on people's faces with their outstretched arms, saying, "Pahingi pera, pahingi pera, pahingi". It was a bothersome scene and the empty eyes of small children carried by young mothers in their threadbare outfits were gut-wrenching but there were too many of them that giving something to one would surely create chaos. Well, I'm digressing.

               Half had gone to a better place, some had other plans, but we're here and that's what really counted.

Before we left for Majayjay Bed and Breakfast, which would be the reunion venue, we hastily lined up on the church's back steps for a picture taking. If it was hard to organize a group of active children, it was more of a challenge to get a bunch of adults, some of whom had not seen each other for half a century, to follow instructions. There was a constant chatter, peals of laughter, a friendly "hello", a shoulder tap here, a rush to stand next to someone over there. Finally, everyone managed to stand still and smile for the cameras. The sunshine was getting stronger and I had to don my sunglasses to curb its intense brightness that was always a problem for my "Lasik" modified eyes. We tied yellow balloons to the vehicles we're using and with Marino and Danny on their respective motorcycles on the lead, we drove around the town. The streets, wherever we went, were full of people, mostly children of varied ages.  That little motorcade gave me the chance to see the changes that had occurred in my hometown during the last half century and I was distressed at how this picturesque little municipality that held so much promise had been brought to such a pitiful state of deterioration. I still had a vivid mental picture of the old Majayjay, the town of my youth, with its clean streets and old but well-tended homes, with the impressive plaza that boasted an iconic hero's monument overlooking a bridge from colonial times, with the clean tennis court next to the municipal building where dances and other town activities were held. Those structures were still present but they were shabby and in a sad state of disrepair. There were children running everywhere, adults standing around busy with inactivity. There were debris, broken vehicles that were just left to rot along the road, unmended fences, old, abandoned homes. The houses, in some areas, seemed to rival the grungy and unkempt appearance of "barong-barongs" while right next to them stood a modern, beautiful home.  One of the things that bothered me the most was the presence of an inordinate amount of vehicles - jeepneys, tricycles, motorbikes, etc - that rendered walking on the streets virtually unsafe.  What happened to my town? Where were the leaders and what were they doing about these pathetic situations? Sorry, I'm digressing... again.

Back to the reunion. As soon as we got to the B&B, we rearranged the tables and chairs in a "T" to enable us to sit together as a group. The food and servers were ready but we decided we would incorporate the lunch somewhere in the middle of the program. As we were waiting for the rest of the vehicles to arrive, we saw an approaching SUV that didn't seem familiar. At closer inspection, we recognized the passengers were Ramon Latina and his wife, Debbie. We had given up on Ramon's participation after he assured us he wasn't coming due to his busy schedule combined with other reasons. His decision was causing some resentments and grumbling among many of us because we did not believe his reason was legitimate. Ramon was an integral part of our high school "Who's Who" so it was easy to understand why his absence, without a compelling cause, was unacceptable.   Personally, he and Robert Romero were the brothers I never had. We were a frequent three-some, studying together, walking around town to some "bikang-bikang" party (lol), going to the tennis court to see a dance, or just simply hanging out on a lazy Friday night. We were a band of "brothers" that stayed close even during the early years of college but we slowly drifted apart as life pulled us in different directions. Robert and I reconnected after we both got married but I never saw or heard from Ramon until we had our last reunion four years ago. A retired lawyer now, he had not lost that winsome personality that endeared him to everyone but his once wavy black hair had been replaced by a headful of gray that he did not seem interested hiding in a bottle of dark dye.   So here he was walking on the soft, rain-soaked lawn of the B&B, and we were ecstatic! Like unrestrained little tots, Necy, Lita, and I ran to meet him and his wife, hugged them, and expressed our appreciation for their presence.   Everyone cheered when they saw them and I bet the overwhelming reception really touched their hearts. But what a difference 50 years made! Ramon had grown from a skinny teenager with those teasing brown eyes to a mature, self-assured, but slightly heavy-set adult that continued to charm others with his trademark self-effacing grin.

Ramon and Debbie getting ready to go.

As soon as everyone showed up, I gave the go-signal for Marino to start the program. He was a very capable emcee with the smoothness and ad-libbing expertise that could rival a TV talk-show host. He had the stage presence of a seasoned performer and his warm singing voice captivated the audience as he belted out old ditties during the Karaoke segment towards the end of the program. Ramon started with an invocation and I followed with my welcome remarks. Robert Romero recognized the attendees and read off from the list the names of those who had passed on. There was a noticeable hush of poignant recollection as he requested the group to remember those departed souls - old friends - in prayer. Mrs. Linsangan, our guest teacher, arrived a little late, so we made some changes on the program and decided to have lunch first. She arrived shortly after lunch was announced. Nena Dorado offered grace and soon, we all lined up to fill our plate. Food was plentiful and everyone enjoyed the sumptuous self-served Filipino favorites of pancit, dinuguan and puto, chicken adobo in coconut milk, grilled fish with tomatoes, onions and herbs on the side, chicken curry, and other side dishes I could not recall because I was more interested in talking than eating at that time. The program resumed after lunch and the attendees were invited to give a personal profile update. Everyone spoke and in their revelations, we caught a glimpse of the proverbial water flowing under the bridge of time as they gave a synopsis of how the intervening years treated them. It was interesting to note how our lives that started on the same focal point deviated so far from one another, that now, our divergent interests and lifestyles, especially of those who had left the country, seemed foreign and unfamiliar to most. Regardless, there were those common threads that would always link us to each other, that easy camaraderie and affection nurtured during those years in high school that time was unable to erase. I would have written a number of interesting volumes had I the inclination to do so as I listened to each one recount the highlights of his/her past. It would be a mistake to assume that only those who had finished a college degree or those who had the opportunity to go abroad were successful, for success was not something that could be defined in singular terms or fashioned into one distinct, specific mold. Indisputably, it could be measured in different yardsticks in an arbitrary manner outside the materialistic and rigid definition of the world. Fame, money, and power had long been considered the attributes of success. But in the lives of this small group of MSA alumni, that narrow framework had expanded to include the more lasting - and more meaningful - elements of success. Love, sacrifice, hard work, selfless service: they were the common denominators in everyone's life as they dedicated their productive years in helping their parents, their siblings, and other close relatives pursue an education, start a business and other productive endeavors to improve their lives. There was no easy start for any of us it seemed, but success, if it could be quantified and bottled, would fill every nook of our old town from the Class of '63 alone. That verbal exercise undoubtedly touched some raw fibers of the emotion and some tears were shed but those were interspersed with hilarity and light moments of laughter. After everyone had the chance to speak. Mrs. Linsangan was presented with a bouquet of flowers as the group's token of appreciation for her attendance and support. She gave a brief remark in her usual amiable manner and candor that made her one of the most beloved classroom figures of our MSA years.

Marino, our emcee.

Robert Romero with Marino and Ramon (on the foreground)

Stiff competitors Lydia and Nena - Musical Chairs game

My dear old friend, Lydia Montemor-Palentinos

The young ones (once).

As the evening drew closer, we took advantage of the remaining daylight hours for a group picture. It was followed with "Let-your-hair-loose" time of games and Karaoke singing. The games brought out the raucous and competitive nature of the participants especially as gifts were distributed to each category winner. There were good-natured banterings and jokes directed to the losers but eventually, everyone had won something from the stash of prizes brought by the "foreign" class members. Dusk was falling when the gathering ended. Everyone seemed reluctant to leave except for Ramon and his wife and Mrs Linsangan and her son who were traveling back to Metro Manila and San Pablo, respectively. Torio Ronabio, an honorary class member and a vice-mayoral candidate, invited the whole group to his restaurant at 4:00 PM the next day. Happy with the knowledge that merriment was being extended, the group dispersed and called it a day.

The whole group of attendees with Mrs. Lucia Linsangan.

At Torio's place, the day after.

Lita, Norma, Necy, Robert, Danny, and I - returned to the B&B later to spend the night in their "Bahay-Kubo", one of the buildings on the compound. Three of us, tired from the day's activities, took advantage of the cozy accommodations and went to bed right away. Necy and the boys, however, stayed until 3 AM playing Mah-jong to the constant drip-drip sound of an all-night drenching rain. It seemed a fitting finale to our class reunion, a day steeped in grateful appreciation to a loving Eternal Father for the blessings of the last fifty years on the lives of us who were still around to enjoy the sunshine, a restful sleep, and the calming rhythm of the falling rain. With an unwavering faith that the clouds would lift from the horizon to give way to a clear day, I gave in to the enticing power of sleep. I closed my eyes, secure in the knowledge that I was prepared, albeit unwittingly, to salute the many uncharted dawns of the remaining golden years (and reunions) ahead.

The Mah-jongeros. Necy wiped out the 2 guys.

Lita and I slept here. Danny slept on the floor below.

Obet occupied the top bunk; Necy, the bottom bunk (lol). Norma U took the other bed across from us (not shown).

After a wonderful breakfast the following morning (I'll always remember that fresh guyabano juice).

“May the road rise up to meet you; may the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.” - An Irish Blessing -