a tree falls in a forest

While studying Japanese, I came across this wonderful thing called yojijukugo(四字熟語)--Japan's version of idioms, or things so universal(at least in Japan) they coined phrases out of them.  These phrases captured my interest. For someone just starting to grasp a language, finding these expressive shortcuts sped things up. And I get to look smart about it, too, since these phrases have grown esoteric over the years.

My favorite phrase which I learned early in my Japan studies was isshokenmei(一生懸命), whose characters separately mean "in one lifetime (一生)" and "risk one's life (懸命)". Together, isshokenmei describes a method of action where you give it your all, every ounce of effort and passion, every fiber of your being, dedicated and focused into one endeavor.  This word was not only inspirational, it also fit my first attempts at Japanese language.

Now, here in Japan, I learned that the word that I carried with me all this time had relatives.  There were other idioms, and my post-arrival life deserved its own.

Kangaimuryo (感慨無量), a combination of the words for "deep emotion (感慨)" and "immeasurable (無量)", is to be caught in a feeling so arresting, so deeply moving, that words lose meaning.

Outlets of expression are scarce when you move to another country.  The language barrier hinders communication, and the dear friends--who know you so well you hardly have to say a word--are nowhere near.

All of my feelings have grown deep because of this: frustration over apathetic dorm mates, disappointment with possible friends, ennui in work, intoxication with new romance, gratitude for life here.  Such mundane things left unresolved, have taken root and burrowed deep into my conscious thought.

I am burdened, and have no way to say it, in any language.

Photo credit: Institute of Environment Policy and Public Policy, Lancaster University

listen to yourself

Joyride. started out back when I was in college. To-and-from school would, given the awful rush-hour traffic in Manila, take about 2 hours; and those lonesome journeys afforded me introspective journeys of my own.

I was young and, rather than inconveniencing my ever-busy parents, I tried to make sense of the world in those peaceful hours marooned in the middle of an urban sea of quiet strangers.

These catalog those thoughts, and the life that snuck-up in between. 8 years and counting.

inevitably

I guess it was bound to happen. Waning interest and dwindling users have finally taken its toll, and Multiply has decided to discontinue their social services this December.  Even before, friends have been chiding me about my choice of syndication; "Still on Multiply?" they would tease with snide astonishment.

Now, I earnestly sympathize with those senile crackpots they feature on TV who, despite practical or sane reason, refuse to leave their broken-down homes filled with peeling wallpaper, yellowed photographs, and the smell of bygone days. This hallowed husk of history isn't pretty, but I cherish it because it grew to be a part of who I am. I've put a lot of myself into this place and made a sanctuary of it, even if it's all rickety and dated.

Inevitably, I must move on. So I'm salvaging what I can and found a new home.

Photo credit: Kaleel Sakakeeny

migration pattern

I imagined coming home would be like visiting an old grave: the absence of life--my life--would have left a gap that I could never fill again. I thought coming home would be like digging up that grave, resting in it, and quietly waiting for all the dead memories to come crawling out of the sodden earth.

It wasn't.

Life in Manila, though wet, was mostly unchanged. Sure, new groceries popped-up, people lined-up at the MRT(who would've thought?), and there were new responses at mass. But the way I interacted with society, all the modes and mediums that allow me to eat great food, go see a movie, and find my friends and family, were still very much present.

The strangers that do me this service everyday since I was born were still just as helpful. The infrastructure that brought me from one place to another was there (even if it was sometimes in waist-deep floodwater). But most especially, loved-ones were not only accessible, they were welcoming.

Friends hugged me as if I've never left. My tita gave me a hearty kiss on the cheek, a little more moist than I remembered. My mom taught me how to cook, and it was warm, full, and good. All of them found time to spend with me, and I feel like the life I left behind was never gone, only misplaced.

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in," Robert Frost once said. Then Manila is still my home, and the diaspora continues.