Wednesday, February 25, 2026
A slow and dreamy stroll beneath the sakura trees in Nakameguro, where chilly mornings and fleeting pink petals turned an ordinary day into something quietly unforgettable.
Spring was just around the corner- a season meant for warmth, light, and open skies. Instead, Tokyo greeted me with kan no modori, the return of the cold. Just when the Yoshino sakura had reached their fullest bloom, winter quietly slipped back in.
Single-digit temperatures.
A grey sky.
A chill that lingered in the hands.
Last spring, I bundled myself into a warm Zara coat and headed to Nakameguro with a friend, determined not to let the cold steal the moment. Armed with Japan’s iconic transparent umbrellas, we walked down the district’s gentle slopes toward the Meguro River, where hundreds of cherry trees arched over the water in soft pink abundance.
There is something about traveling in less-than-ideal conditions that strips away expectation. Without the postcard sunshine, you begin to notice subtler things- the sound of rain tapping against plastic umbrellas, the hush of people walking slower, the intimacy of shared silence.
Nakameguro Cherry Blossom Esplanade stretches along the river like a delicate corridor of blossoms. Branches heavy with petals leaned toward one another as if in quiet embrace. The chilly breeze carried sakura petals into the water, where they floated downstream in silent procession.
Cold hands. Warm sakura heart.
The rain deepened the colors. The mist softened the skyline. Lanterns glowed faintly against slick stone paths. Each breath rose visibly in the cool air, small clouds of warmth against the chill.
As petals swirled around us, it felt as though the trees themselves were leaning in — protective, gentle, almost tender. I felt embraced by the moment-by the season itself.
The trees were hugging me, yes.
And in that moment, I understood something simple: warmth does not always come from the weather. Sometimes, it comes from presence — from choosing to walk forward anyway.
Here are the haiku I carried home from that morning:
Meguro River
cherry petals drift in rain
cold hands, a warm heart
morning mist and rain
lantern glow on slick stone paths
breath warms my chest now
Umbrellas whisper
petals float like confetti
cold fingers, warm smile
When life grows challenging, I close my eyes and return to that spring memory in Nakameguro. I remember the hush of rain, the softness of falling petals, and the quiet strength of stepping out into the cold rather than waiting for perfect conditions.
In a world that constantly urges us to wait for better timing, that morning taught me something simple:
Go anyway.
Walk anyway.
Bloom anyway.
And sometimes, carry a transparent umbrella-just in case.
Wednesday, January 21, 2026
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| Where Gaillardias bloom |
Hello, January.
I think I have always loved you for what you represent—the pause before becoming, the permission to begin again. You arrive without judgment, offering a clean edge of time where I can sit with myself and take stock.
Even after the goals I failed to reach in 2025, I find myself strangely hopeful. Not because everything worked out, but because the desire to try again never truly left. The dreams I thought I had buried were only resting. Beneath the ash, something still glows. Thank you for returning as the seasons of my life turn once more. Thank you for reminding me that renewal does not require perfection—only willingness.
In my garden, the Gaillardia-also known as the blanket flower-has finally bloomed. Fiery and yellow-tinged, it waited its time, growing quietly from seed until it was ready. It feels like a flower born of embers: vivid, grounded and persistent. A living reminder that beauty can return from difficult seasons, that it often rises from the hardest places, and that waiting is sometimes part of becoming.
Sunday, January 11, 2026
The city teaches her how to live with noise—
not just the kind outside the window,
but the quieter kind that asks her to keep moving,
to be visible, to be more.
Some evenings, she chooses softness instead.
A guitar waits in the corner of the room.
The lamp is low.
Streetlight slips through thin curtains.
A cup cools on the table.
A cat curls nearby, already at rest.
She doesn’t play to be heard.
There is no audience here, no need to impress.
Mistakes are allowed.
Pauses are welcome.
When she plays, time loosens.
Breath finds its rhythm.
Each chord holds what the day could not.
In a world that asks women to be polished and pleasing,
creating something only for herself
is quietly brave.
The solace isn’t in sounding good.
It’s in staying.
And when she plays for herself,
she steps out of the city
and gently,
back into herself.
The city teaches her how to live with noise—
not just the kind outside the window,
but the quieter kind that asks her to keep moving,
to be visible, to be more.
Some evenings, she chooses softness instead.
A guitar waits in the corner of the room.
The lamp is low.
Streetlight slips through thin curtains.
A cup cools on the table.
A cat curls nearby, already at rest.
She doesn’t play to be heard.
There is no audience here, no need to impress.
Mistakes are allowed.
Pauses are welcome.
When she plays, time loosens.
Breath finds its rhythm.
Each chord holds what the day could not.
In a world that asks women to be polished and pleasing,
creating something only for herself
is quietly brave.
The solace isn’t in sounding good.
It’s in staying.
And when she plays for herself,
she steps out of the city
and gently,
back into herself.
Tuesday, December 2, 2025
This summer, my good friend Cathy from the States sent me a packet of Wildflower Mix seeds. I’ve never considered myself much of a green thumb — certainly nothing like my late mother — but every now and then I manage to weave a little garden magic when it truly matters.
This year, it mattered.
I’ve spent the past months tending my mother’s garden, a place she nurtured with such love before she passed a decade ago. I made a promise to keep her lawn alive and to keep adding to her collection. And so, slowly and carefully, I’ve been filling it with new life: Nerium oleander, Sweet Alison, strawberries, a goldfish plant, kumquat, and a Philodendron “Prince of Orange,” among others.
My favorite, by far, is Sweet Alison — a honey-scented wildflower that draws in pollinators and memories in equal measure. Its fragrance always brings Tom Petty’s song "Wildflowers" to mind, one of my cherished garden-themed songs. There’s something about the lyrics, gentle and reassuring, that reminds me that no matter how life unfolds, we all deserve a place where we feel free.
Tending this garden has become more than a task; it’s a quiet ritual, a way of keeping my mother close. And every time Sweet Alison blooms, I’m reminded that we, too, belong among the wildflowers.
Wednesday, November 5, 2025
Just like that, November is here again — my birthday month. This year feels more meaningful because I turned 50 over the weekend. Half a century. A milestone that once sounded intimidating, but now feels grounding, liberating, and surprisingly light.
In past birthdays, I would pack my bags, book a flight, and spend the weekend exploring somewhere new. I used to crave movement, escape, and stimulation — as if the only way to “celebrate” was to go somewhere far. But this year, I wanted something different. Softer. Quieter. More intentional.
So, instead of chasing a trip, I chose a staycation — not out of laziness, but out of a newfound appreciation for rest as celebration.
Why Stay — and Not Run?
Turning 50 shifts something inside you. You start valuing energy differently. You begin filtering what deserves your presence and what no longer needs your urgency. The idea of skipping airport stress, packing logistics, and the guilt of leaving my cats for days felt… right.
There is comfort in staying close to home yet seeing your city with a fresh set of eyes — noticing the details you once ignored because life was moving too fast. Maybe I had been too jaded to appreciate the gentle quirks of this southern city, a place I often take for granted simply because it is familiar.
The Space to Breathe
I booked a night at the newly opened Sam’s 21 Hotel along Benigno Aquino Highway. Clean, modern, aesthetically pleasing — the kind of space that doesn’t overwhelm but invites you to exhale. From my window, I could see the street slowly shifting into Christmas mode with oversized parols hung on every lamp post. Soon, this whole stretch will glow with festive lights, a reminder that joy is seasonal, but also cyclical — it returns when you make space for it.
Inside the room was comfort in its purest form: a plush bed, warm lighting, silence that felt like a gift. I ate my takeaway dinner slowly, journaled with intention, played soft chords on my travel guitar, and laughed at AI cat videos (Ginger's Diary and Black Cat Jiji's Restaurant). The smallest pleasures expanded because there was finally room for them to breathe.
Sometimes, joy is not loud — it’s gentle and quiet, asking for nothing but your presence.
Reclaiming the City at Night
That evening, I walked to the nearby mall to buy pastries, dinner, and a small birthday gift for myself — a wireless Miniso keyboard (practicality is the love language of women at 50).
What surprised me was how the walk felt different. Under the soft glow of the street lamps, I noticed joggers, cyclists, and strangers moving through their own evening rituals. I realized how walkable this part of Iloilo is — something I never appreciated because I was always in a rush.
There’s a certain romance in rediscovering your own city — not as a resident, but as an observer, almost like dating it again after years of co-existing.
Morning Light, Coffee, and New Energy
The next morning, sunlight streamed into the room like a warm invitation to start anew. I walked to the River Esplanade — one of the city’s best spots for reflection — and watched fishermen catching tilapia from the river’s thriving ecosystem. It was ordinary, almost mundane, yet grounding in a way that felt poetic.
Breakfast at Drip Café was simple. The tapa was average, but the Flat White was excellent — and as shallow as it sounds, sometimes a good cup of coffee is enough to shift the day for the better.
The Substance of This Staycation
It wasn’t a grand trip. No passport stamps. No bucket-list adventures.
But it gave me:
• space to think
• quiet to listen to myself
• comfort without effort
• presence without distraction
At 50, celebration takes on a new meaning. It becomes less about the more and more about the meaning. You stop chasing what looks good on photos and choose what feels good in the soul.
Fifty: A New Kind of Free
I left the hotel feeling lighter — not because I escaped life, but because I paused long enough to return to it with clarity. If this is what 50 feels like — intentional, peaceful, and deeply rooted — then I welcome the decade ahead with open arms.
Happy birthday to me.
Here’s to choosing softness, slowness, and the kind of life that feels like a deep breath.
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
I can't believe that I'll be turning half a century next year. Any Gen-X woman who has lived through the halcyon days of the 80's and 90's is probably amazed at how fast time flies. We definitely have come a long way since the days of black and white TV, Flinstone chewable vitamins, Rainbow Brite and rotary landline phones. Now that the retirement years seem visible on the horizon (eek!), I can't help but wonder where the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness has taken me. Maybe it’s time to calibrate my happiness meter.
Despite the pesky patches of grey hair that graze my hairline and occasional knee pain that jolts me as I alight from a bus commute, I come upon the realization that the meaning of happiness takes on a different shape when one grows older. I have become a version of my grandma who was known for loving the shallow pond of happiness (mababa ang kaligayahan).
I'm out of the rat race and just living life on my own terms. Hence, I no longer see any sense in becoming happy only when certain conditions are present--when I get that dream vacation or when I purchase that fancy, big ticket item. Happiness doesn't have to cost much, or it can even be free.
The joy in mundane things. This is the small but certain happiness that Haruki Murakami describes in his collection of essays, Afternoon in the Islets of Langerhans. Happiness is a pile of freshly ironed laundry or an ice-cold pitcher of Cherry Kool-aid. Happiness is being able to pay your bills on time. Happiness is a cat fed on time.
Until then, may happiness, small and big find you when you least expect it.
Monday, December 9, 2024
Wednesday, November 13, 2024
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| Suman rice bday cupcake |
It's also my last year in my 40's era so I'm feeling grateful and nervous of what the next decade will bring. Sometimes I don't feel as young as I used to but I try to keep my inner child happy and free.
I'm grateful and blessed for this life. The best is yet to come.
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
.HEIC)
Sunday, October 27, 2024
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| Cats of WVSU on Instagram |
Tuesday, October 8, 2024
Tuesday, October 1, 2024
1. "The meaning of life is to give life meaning."- Viktor Frankl2. "Hunger is cheap, the palate is expensive." -Seneca
Monday, August 19, 2024
Like the rest of Generation X, I lived half of my life offline. There were no smartphones, tablets, or social networking sites when I was younger. Social media arrived relatively late in our lives, and for the most part, I enjoyed the analog, lo-fi lifestyle. Search engines were unheard of, and “mental telepathy” was our primary mode of communication—especially among friends with no landline telephones. Sometimes I wonder how we navigated and survived the pre-Internet world, but we did. Then Gen-X practically invented the digital age, and life was never the same.
Fast forward to around Y2K, when computing evolved at a dizzying pace. We found ourselves at the cusp of another technological milestone—the age of dial-up Internet, primitive social media, and the rise of the so-called global village. We witnessed technological and cultural acceleration in a way no previous generation had experienced. We were thrilled when we got our first email accounts. Then came file- and music-sharing services, electronic bulletin boards, self-publishing platforms, photoblogging, and microblogging sites like Facebook and Twitter.
I’ve seen social sharing platforms come and go and have probably tested nearly every social media app—from Tumblr to Flickr. I grew up a bookworm, so it’s no surprise that the format that resonated with me most was Blogger, the long-form self-publishing platform introduced by Pyra Labs in 1999. I’ve been blogging since Blogger was still in beta and have witnessed several reincarnations of my online journals. I’ve maintained blogs, outgrown them, and deleted some along the way. My longest-running blog still exists, and I’ll probably have enough permalink memories to reminisce over when I turn 70. My relationship with the Internet and social media has always been cyclical—a love-hate affair that continues to this day.
To clarify, self-publishing platforms are not inherently social media unless commenting and sharing are enabled. Expressing oneself freely—sometimes tongue-in-cheek—is the essence of personal publishing. This empowering, game-changing aspect is what gives it a sustainable following, even in a world dominated by Facebook and TikTok.
In contrast, younger generations appear deeply immersed in short-form content platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. These platforms limit words and visuals, often stripping away context and nuance. In this case, a little information can be dangerous. This is one reason I’ve never been a fan of platforms where a one-sentence update passes as a blog post.
Millennials and Gen-Z were born into a world where content is primarily digital and instantly accessible through gadgets and mobile phones. Social media apps come pre-installed—factory settings for modern life. There seems to be no escape from the pressure to participate. It’s unsurprising that younger generations experience unintended mental and emotional effects from social media; unlike Gen-X, they weren’t gradually introduced to the technology.
As someone who lived through the analog-to-digital transition, I’ve learned—through experience—that it is possible to disengage from the harmful effects of social media without spiraling into mental health dysfunction. Here are a few insights gleaned from decades of my complicated relationship with the Internet:
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Social media presents a mediated version of reality. Filters, edits, and curated feeds give life a glossy overlay. Art imitates life, and sometimes the reverse is true. Everything online is not what it seems. Still, these tools can also enhance creativity and imagination.
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Choose platforms that fit your lifestyle and needs. There’s no obligation to be omnipresent online. Everyone is essentially a beta tester and a data point for advertisers.
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Set personal boundaries. Control how much of your world you share. Disable comments, limit audiences, and curate your feed to include inspiring creators while filtering out content that triggers negativity.
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Social media doesn’t belong in the bathroom. Delete apps from your phone and access them only on selected devices—for your mental health.
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Find your tribe. If you’re passionate about certain hobbies or interests, seek like-minded people on platforms like Pinterest, Threads, Instagram, or Substack. These spaces can still be valuable for learning and connection.
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Anonymity breeds entitlement. The Internet gives people license to be harsh and toxic in ways they wouldn’t be in real life. Thoughtful discourse is rare. If you encounter vitriol, turn off comments. Words only hurt if you let them. In true Gen-X fashion, we give zero fucks to keyboard warriors.
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Live like it’s 1999. Constant connectivity can rob us of joy. Not every breakfast or OOTD needs documentation. The best memories live in our minds—not on our feeds.
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Don’t seek validation online. Likes and approval are fleeting. You’re a mere speck in the information superhighway. The Internet was never about you—and it will exist with or without you.
The Internet was meant to be a playground.
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