Wednesday, February 25, 2026
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.
Saturday, March 8, 2025
Recently, I have been drawn to the quiet, almost cinematic beauty of slice-of-life vlogs—women living alone in woodland cottages, tiny apartments, and thoughtfully curated spaces in picturesque places like Tokyo and Stockholm.
There is something deeply comforting about the way they move through their days—softly, intentionally—as if even the most mundane routines are worthy of attention.
One creator who has especially inspired me is Paola Merrill, also known as The Cottage Fairy. Through her gentle storytelling, I’ve come to realize that romanticizing life is not about where you are, but how you choose to see.
Because the truth is, you don’t need a charming countryside cottage or a perfectly styled home to live a beautiful life.
Even in the busiest cities, even in the most ordinary circumstances, there is always something soft to hold on to—something quietly magical waiting to be noticed.
As a small city woman, I’ve learned that it is entirely possible to curate a life that feels inspired. A life where ordinary moments feel just a little more meaningful.
Here’s how I’ve been romanticizing mine:
Pinterest has long been my sanctuary. I joined it back when it was still in beta, and over the years, it has become a collection of dreams—images curated from artists, writers, and dreamers across the world.
At home, I make a conscious effort to create a workspace that uplifts me. I surround myself with things that spark joy—meaningful artwork, handwritten notes, and small details that bring comfort (thank you, Marie Kondo).
These tiny choices quietly transform an ordinary desk into a space of inspiration.
Finding Quiet Escapes Within the City
I’ve also learned to rediscover my city in a softer way.
The newly renovated plazas and public spaces have become small sanctuaries. On certain afternoons, I take a walk, find a quiet bench, and listen to my favorite playlists on Spotify.
In those moments, I gently tune out the chaos of the world—and allow myself to simply be.
Returning to Gentle, Old-Fashioned Joys
From childhood to adulthood, I’ve always been drawn to simple, old-fashioned hobbies—sewing, crafting, and creating handmade gifts for the people I love.
These days, I try to weave these activities into my weekly routine. There is something deeply grounding about working with your hands, about creating something tangible in a fast-moving world.
It reminds me to slow down, even just for a little while.
Nurturing Life, One Leaf at a Time
Like many others, I embraced my inner plantita during the pandemic—and it stayed with me.
Caring for my plants has become a quiet ritual. Watering them in the evening feels almost meditative. Watching them grow and thrive serves as a gentle reminder of resilience—of life continuing, even through difficult seasons.
Finding Kindred Spirits
Romanticizing life becomes even more meaningful when shared with others.
I’m grateful to have found friends who appreciate slow, mindful living—people who understand the beauty of small, quiet moments and the joy of simply being present.
Living Through Stories and Faraway Places
I’ve always been drawn to art, history, and the gentle romance of different eras.
The world of Jane Austen, in particular, has always captured my imagination—its softness, its quiet elegance, its attention to detail.
Travel has also played a role in shaping how I see life. Experiencing cultures like Japan has allowed me to step into a different rhythm—one that values simplicity, mindfulness, and beauty in the everyday.
And somehow, when I return home, I carry a piece of that perspective with me.
Choosing a Soft, Seasonal Lens
At its core, romanticizing life is an act of intention.
It is choosing to see beauty where others might not. It is slowing down, even when the world feels rushed. It is finding poetry in the ordinary.
Even if I live near the equator, where seasons do not change as dramatically, I have learned to create my own sense of seasonality.
In my own little world, it is always spring—and sometimes, a quiet, golden autumn.
Final Thought
You don’t need to change your life to make it beautiful.
Sometimes, all it takes is learning how to see it differently.
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
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