Birdsong for the New Home

They say,
“Grief is just love with no place to go.”

And perhaps this is how we heal
from the act of grieving,
rehoming that love
in another place,
in another form.

Cut and Whole

I found a paper to write on
Instead I held a scissor

I cut pieces of seasons
Unafraid to lose
what I could not keep

All I need is a piece
The rest can stay
cut and left.

Flora Field Notes #12: White Sky Vine

• Name: White Sky Vine/ White Bengal Clock Vine/ White Trumpet Vine
• Scientific name: Thunbergia grandiflora alba
• Not native to the Philippines, but already naturalized in parts of the Philippines
• Potentially an invasive species

Interesting Facts

• Belongs to the same botanical species as the Thunbergia grandiflora. In botanical nomenclature, “alba” translates from Latin as “white” and is used to describe plants that bear white flowers, white fruits, or a whitish appearance. Thus, this specific plant is named Thunbergia grandiflora alba.
• Known for its large, elegant, white trumpet-shaped flowers with pale yellow throats.
• Researchers from the University of the Philippines Los Baños (UPLB) noted that this plant has characteristics of invasive plants because it easily adapts to various environmental conditions and spreads aggressively under favorable conditions.
• A vigorous, fast-growing twining vine that can climb up to 30 feet when grown in fences, pergolas, trellises, and arbors.
• Attracts pollinators like bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.
• Thrives best in full sun to partial shade, requiring at least four to six hours of direct sunlight daily for optimal blooming.
• Functions as both a climber and a creeper. It is naturally a twining vine, meaning its stems wrap around supports such as trellises, fences, pergolas, poles, and even trees. It can also creep on the ground when a support for climbing is unavailable.

Sightings & Stories

It was at the Balay Buhay sa Uma Bee Farm in Sorsogon City when I first noticed this flower. We were walking around the farm and in one area, there were several of these flowers hanging low and swaying freely with the wind, like floral non-acoustic wind chimes. It caught my attention, so I drew nearer. It must have offered something sweet because the flowers and their stems worked like bridges for black ants. I did not even dare to come close to smell it.

The second time I saw this flower was by the roadside near a creek while we were walking around searching for a diner in San Vicente, Palawan. It looked like a wildflower, shining in white against lush, dark green heart-shaped leaves and twining vines. It was already dusk that time and its white flowers were most eye-catching against the fading light.

The third time I saw this flower was at the Terrazas de Flores Botanical Garden and Restaurant in Busay, Cebu City. Like in Balay Buhay sa Uma Bee Farm, it was dangling gracefully from a wooden trellis. There were scattered fallen flowers on the ground and I took some home to press them.

The latest I saw this flower was when it was creeping on the cemetery grounds in the Roman Catholic Cemetery Diocese of Iligan City. That was the first time I saw this flower on the ground instead of dangling from above.

Field Notes

This flower was the only flower that I got to see both hanging from a wooden trellis and creeping on the ground. With the fallen flowers I got from Terrazas de Flores, I got to touch and smell this flower. It was soft, smooth, and delicate, but without any scent.

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This post is part of a mini project called Flora Field Notes: notes and observations on Philippine flora.

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This post also joins Terri Webster Schrandt’s The Flower Hour.

Summer Teachers

In the summer of the ’90s, I was a teacher in our neighborhood.

Ann and I became friends one summer in 1994. She was already in her early years of high school while I was still in Grade 4. Although our family had already lived in the neighborhood for two years, I did not know other kids.

One day, Ann and I sat together reading and writing. She learned that I loved books. She saw that I read and wrote well, so she invited me to join her in teaching the younger kids in the neighborhood. I said yes.

Three times a week in the summer afternoons, Ann and I were teachers in our small makeshift classroom just beside their house. We set up small wooden chairs in a row behind a long wooden kitchen table. We had a small black board in front and a little standee beside it where we flipped manila papers for the visual aids of our lessons. Ann and I taught different subjects, but mostly reading and writing in English.

Ann introduced me to the class as their English teacher. I brought my books and read stories to the younger kids. I taught them how to read. I guided their small hands in writing letters and then forming words. With some older kids who were still struggling with their phonetics and subject-verb agreements, I taught them to read, write, and speak better.

It was one class for all ages. We usually had around five to ten kids in the classroom. It was all done for free. Ann and I never got any reward or payment. I’m not sure if the children’s parents even knew their kids were still going to school in the afternoons. Our Purok president and Barangay Captain probably did not even know, but we did it all with pure gladness and without much thought.

I can’t remember how Ann and I planned for our lessons. I think we didn’t have any. I just brought my books. We asked for the kids to bring their pens and papers. Everything just flowed from there. Ann’s mother was a public school teacher. That was probably where Ann got her teaching skills.

For two summers, Ann and I taught in our makeshift classroom. We didn’t have any measure for success except that before the summers ended, we were seeing how the kids became better at reading and writing.

After classes, we would all play together. I became friends with other kids. We were students and teachers, but we were all playmates. It was still like school, but this time I was the teacher. When I went home, it would be just in time when my Mamang and Papang also went home from work. At our dinner table, I would tell my parents stories of how my day went.

In one letter that I have kept until today, Ann wrote about how grateful she was she found me that time. She finally had a co-teacher. She said that she would often tell her Mama how amazed she was that at such a young age, I was already advanced in my reading, writing, and public speaking. She said I was a great teacher.

Soon enough all the kids started growing up including Ann and me. There was no longer a summer for the neighborhood, just summers for each of us to experience. Even though we were neighbors, we hardly saw each other. We stopped becoming summer teachers. Our classroom closed. The students were all grown up. There was no longer a need for teaching.

I have not seen or talked to Ann for years. I’m not even sure if this is still a shared memory between us. But I now look back to this memory with fondness. These summers were my first experiences of what it meant to be part of a community.

How does a community begin?

We tend to label certain experiences as coming from the need to help or to give, but positioning yourself as a helper or a giver changes the perspective. Ann and I were not helpers or givers. We did not teach because we saw a problem that needed to be solved or because we wanted to impress the other kids or their parents. We taught because we enjoyed reading and writing, and we found kids who enjoyed the same things but needed a little more attention than us, and so, we shared what we had.

We were merely sharers more than being givers or helpers. We shared our knowledge, resources, and time. We all shared in the fun. There was no measure of success and no expectation of a reward. It was the simple gift of community.

Positioning and distinction between sharing and helping matters. Helping suggests filling what is lacking. Sharing suggests using or apportioning available resources at the same time.

Perhaps that is why community forms more naturally when sharing rather than in helping. They begin when there is little to no agenda, only having something in common and making it available to others. The word community is derived from the Latin communis, meaning “common” or “shared by all.”

Looking back, that was what we built: a small summer learning community. We did not start because of a vision, strategy, or plan. We did not need a structure, agenda, or rewards. What we had were people who had a common love for learning. Out of that common love, we shared our knowledge, time, resources, willingness, and presence. And as it turned out, it was enough.

As for myself, sometimes, plagued with strategies and ideas, I find myself believing that I need to be excellent before I can get the job done. I seem to always need to know the prerequisites first before I can even say yes. But once in my life, I was a summer teacher, not because I was qualified, not because I wanted to serve, not because I was an excellent visionary and strategist, not because I had a cause to drive, but simply because, I wanted to share what I knew with a group of people who wanted to take part in it, and that was enough.

These days, a table awaits on Thursday nights for people to gather around. I prepare and would later find myself unfit and unqualified. But I thank God for helping me retrieve this memory as a reminder that the simple means of gathering and sharing even one thing in common is already enough. The summer classroom of 12 gifted me with a lasting lesson for the table of five. And so I come to the table and wait. I save space for others to join. We will all share what we already have.

Still

25 and young
40 and almost done
15 and grateful still.