Strung bow
A brief accounting of the journey before shaking off winter from my bones
Moving to the United States has changed my relationship with time. Back home, I measured my life in holidays and pockets of sunlight. Days have little variation in Manila — it’s perpetually warm, and the sky is either sunny, rainy, or overcast — so distinctions are made within every day. Mornings, to me, were the most enlivening, and afternoons, when the heat peaks, were the slowest, regardless of month. Even though I rarely take naps, I inevitably breathe in the lethargy of siesta hour. Dinner revives me. If it is pouring, I pause, move languidly, stay in or wait it out if I can. Resume when the sun reemerges, as it always does, eventually. The next day, I do the same.
In Texas, I am inevitably buoyed by the seasons. Where the earth is along its orbit dictates the state of my being.
With spring comes renewal. Waking. Around my house the earth appears painted in wildflowers, and in the air is the chorus of birds and insects all stretching back to life. Despite whatever inner turmoil or hesitation, it is hard not to feel the nudge of the warming season to get up, uncurl and unfurl, and follow suit. The time for rest is over.
But first, a pause. A brief moment of suspension as I brace for the charge forward. Before I break into a run, I need to look at where I am standing.
Where I stand today is far from where I was only last year, certainly — a steady job and small community, a residency in Europe on the horizon, a forthcoming chapbook — but the journey ahead is still long and perilous. The paths ever forking. In my pocket are rejection letters (an occupational hazard), vestiges of trauma (the inevitable human condition), wavering desires, and a lack of clear purpose — but also the capacity to still dream (essential, a privilege), a grasp of my personal and collective histories (to know what brings me here), and a resilience growing like an old narra tree (fight, withstand, survive).
Then there are the things I have yet to earn, build, and collect: a freer imagination and the strength to hold difficult conversations. A full-length book. Fluency in another language. Basic gardening, carpentry, and illustration skills. A business I can call my own. Bookbinding, maybe. Grace in failure, a lifelong pursuit.
There is so much to be done. Despite the chill I bear, I am determined to dance on lighter, surer feet today.
New publication
I’m happy to share that my poem “The Tower” will be published in the upcoming issue of the Black Warrior Review, the oldest continuously run literary journal by graduate students in the United States. If you are interested in purchasing a copy at a discounted rate, please write to me! I’ll make sure to reserve a copy for you.