strange fruits for advent

   the national climate of depression brought on by yolanda is still thick in the air.  the breeze auguring the coming of christmas is heavy and lifeless.   and, we thought of joining fr. noel in a day of recollection at the sacred heart novitiate in novaliches.  this time, there were no crickets like the last time i took a stroll on its grounds.  birds were chirping.  occasionally, the flock of sheep roaming freely were bleating out to each other in this vast prime property.  and then there was this ugly tree.

       and the tree was slowly dying.  a growing hill of termites were gnawing at its roots. and, the fig tree that jesus cursed came to mind.  that poor tree had not been bearing fruits.   for being useless, it was cursed by christ and the apostles saw it wither.
       the west wind of december weighed heavier as i walked back sad with the image of a rotting tree.

 earlier, i had wanted to sit by the image of the madonna under a huge banyan tree.  the bench that was there last august wasn't there anymore.  and there were spiders.  i was beginning to regret taking the morning's walk until i saw some "strange fruits" under the trees.

  i saw my kids and my niece meditating under the trees as if waiting in expectant hope ... just like how it was on the first advent.

___
strange fruit is a favorite song of mine.  billie holiday's rendition of this haunting song against racism is the best that i have heard.

Cassette tape rocks!

BEEP.  BEEP.  ORAS NA NG RELYEBO!

Juan dela Cruz band pa rin kapag rock!

At para mapawi nang kahit kaunti ang pagod at stress ng araw, limang minutong pakikinig sa rock ni Joey Pepe Smith ang kinailangan!

Salamat, Joey at Day, sa matagalang "hiram" ng tape!  At hindi ko pa rin naililipat sa ibang format.  Bawal daw!

remembering my father

Papa is a funny Catholic. He usually steps out of the church during homilies. He smokes outside by the door. The only time that he stays for the whole duration was when we attend the 6 AM (!) mass at the Carmelite Convent chapel in New Manila, Quezon City. The mass there only takes 30 minutes, and the homily was always short. But I think Papa liked going there for the nuns. He claimed that he feels like he is in heaven when he hears them sing.

 
Papa hates priests. But Msgr. Bautista who was our parish priest in Bacood was an exception. I think it was because Msgr. Bautista called him “Naning” as if they had been old, old friends. No note of condescension even if Papa rarely went to mass in his church. However, I never found out why he hated priests. Well, he may have hated priests but he loves the Carmelite nuns. After each early morning Sunday mass, the whole family would troop to the receiving parlor of the convent. We would spend the whole morning meeting the nuns of the community. They would open the curtains behind the cloistering bars of the convent. Sr. Mary Louise, their mother superior that time, would also call Papa “Naning” in almost the same manner as Msgr. Bautista, but more like she was family. Sr. Mary Louise and Papa were like siblings who would not mince words yet one notes their mutual trust and respect. She often spoke to me during the visits. I can’t forget the time right after Ninoy’s assassination and she feared a breakdown in social order. They felt that they were vulnerable to assault by Marcos minions as they were identified with Cory. She knew though that Papa worked for Marcos for a time.

Papa would bring his family to the Carmelite convent every Sunday morning at 6 AM. He also made sure that we brought a cavan of rice or sugar to the convent every month. And so I met Sr. Bernard. Papa asked me to teach her to play the violin. Just the basic skills. I tried on weekends but it was tough teaching through the iron grills. Med school was tough enough too. And there was Sr. Catalina who is a favorite for her great cinnamon rolls and puto! And there were the other nuns who were scions either of Philippine gentry or nobility giving up their comfortable worldly life for the quiet and Spartan of the convent.

When my dad died, the nuns volunteered to give him a coffin. Sr. Mary Louise also asked that his body be brought to the altar of their beautiful chapel for his last holy mass and a chance for her and all the other cloistered nuns to say goodbye to their dear friend. Of course, their gesture was welcomed by the whole family. But it was only lately that I gathered the details of how we were able to get the coffin. (It’s another story that made the nuns and, especially, my wife even more endearing to me.) The nuns kept a collection of donated coffins. They gave Papa their biggest coffin. It was all white. No metal handles. No frills. Joy who had Papa’s height measured earlier thought that this was good enough. Joy volunteered to get it as I made arrangements for the wake and fetched family members flying in from the US. So the nuns brought the coffin out from storage. They also helped Alma, a family friend, and Joy load the box into our Toyota Revo. Joy had all the backrests folded on one side of the van for the box to fit. Alma sat on the second row making sure that the box would remain secure as Joy drove from the Broadway convent to the funeral home on Araneta Ave. 

The fit was perfect. There was still a couple of inches of space above his head. And I thought that relatives would be happy to see this. Too much space may be construed as thoughtlessness. I have overheard once, in a wake, while I was still a small boy, my Bulakeña aunts fussing over the perfect fit of a coffin. One should not make room in the coffin for others to follow soon, they muttered. So I took note of the superstition, just to keep the peace. The peace held until three days later when one of my sisters noticed something disturbing. My father grew taller. His head was now almost hitting the headboard of the coffin! We had to contact the funeral homes services.

It was a simple case of the cadaveric posturing, they said. When we die, we stiffen up. In that process, my father’s heels extended downwards pushing on the footboard. This pushed him up. The funeral homes staff suggested breaking his legs to make my dad shorter. The thought made some members of the family shudder. So we let it stay that way. My father was 5’7” and his work with huge printing machines had made him a well-muscled man. But he was always a huge figure in my life. I would cower in fear whenever he loses his temper. My eldest brother got the brunt of it actually. But luckily, Papa mellowed. I do remember the few times when I took a whipping from him and for good reason, I am sure. I am not sure what anymore though but I remember him as a father who was highly protective of his family. He was the typical good provider. He was the typical strict disciplinarian. That was how he loved. That was how he was taught how to love. And, the coffin may have cut him down to size but that made me realize how much of a human being he truly was. That’s Papa whom I still love and miss.

photos of daddy's 90th birthday party at luxent hotel

my father-in-law just turned 90. the family decided to give him a birthday bash at the new luxent hotel in quezon city.

A SLIDESHOW FOR THE 90TH BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION OF BERNABE JOSE URBANO, SR.

2012: living, loving and learning

the photograph not taken

We finally reached Bumthang as we came from the east through Assam, India. We were finally midway our cross-country photography expedition and were in the spiritual heartland of Bhutan. Thick forests covered the gorges and the roadsides. And furry yaks roamed freely. I had reached this place two years before. That time Joy and I came in through the usual route from the west. This year, I was with Keith and Garrie fulfilling a photographer's dream of covering the whole breadth of the Himalayan kingdom. And, we had a kind Bhutanese driver who would stop upon our request if we saw anything worth photographing. Yeshi would even help Keith set up his tripod as he did the panoramics. We already consumed dozens of rolls of film and gigabytes of digital storage -- enough to keep me busy for months developing the films and doing computer work processing the pictures.  That was the thought in my mind one morning as our SUV was cruising through a narrow road on a steep verdant mountainside. I was looking up at the sun playing through the trees when in a narrow clearing there suddenly appeared six or seven of those gentle behemoths spread on a side of a mountain calmly grazing. And just behind them was the morning sun giving each yak a celestial glow! It was a nat geo, postcard-perfect photo! My companions must have had their eyes glued on the road where many a mishaps have occurred. This was BNR territory (Bodies Not Recoverable as the ravine was too deep.) I did not ask Yeshi to stop. For a time after, I regretted not asking him but then I thought we already had enough travel photos. However, I now realize that it was best just captured with my mind so I could dwell on it on a day like today.