By Rex Catubig

 

I often wonder what spell it casts, but among the months, May is embedded in our consciousness, not for the colorful events it celebrates– the fiestas, Flores de Mayo, Santacruzan– but for the simple memories it holds amid the flamboyance of summer.

May is youth remembered. The encounter with unexpected beauty and bounty in some obscure and remote place where “ the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time”.

Years ago, my footloose self darted me to San Jacinto, a bucolic town not really known for anything. But it’s here I discovered these ancient ruins of a church, hidden behind a parish building, to the side of the present church. A quadrant of its towering back wall with arched openings was intact, and where probably the sanctuary was, the floor was raised waist high to make up a thrust stage flanked by concrete steps on either side.  Down front, to the right, was the remnant of a giant belfry.

 

I thought it was a beautiful enchanted setting—its ambience a perfect backdrop for the theater piece I was writing at the time—a folk fantasy titled Sigsilew—a story about the phenomenon of will o wisp and its effect on a village.

Pending that and its possible production there, I did an initial photo shoot for a concert billed as Solcery—an amalgam of the words sun and sorcery, while keeping a raincheck for that future theater space.

But when I went back, I was shocked and distressed to find the place pockmarked with excavations here and there—a clear sign that there was treasure hunting digging going on.

This was a desecration not only of a once holy place but a heritage  treasure.

So I mustered courage to seek an audience with Monsignor Limon, the Archbishop of Lingayen-Dagupan, to report this anomalous activity, which I suspected the church leaders were complicit with.

Pushed against the brickwall of the usual pastoral concerns, it probably just hung there to dry. My frustration just lingered like moldy afterthought. And before long, May had begun to dissolve into a blur of summer memories.

But May did not really end there. It did not disappoint.

Because there was this other place. Off the highway, an idyllic hideaway is hidden deep into an orchard. An ancient mango tree stood like an honor guard at the gate leading to a pathway lined with a platoon of chico, guava, caimito, and more mango trees. At the end of the gravelly trail, sat a quaint storybook chalet where a greying woman who lived in solitude for most of the year, welcomed us like a mysterious seeress presiding over a paradisical domain.

I remember the humid days spent there, just sitting on the wide steps of the concrete staircase that ascended to the open porch. We would while away the time, munching on the sour green mangoes we randomly picked off the lowered branches weighted by the fruit.

At some point, we ventured out behind the house, where a brook with clear water ran eerily along the back perimeter—a mystic brook it was.

During that time, I  was exploring nude photography, and the secluded area  presented itself as a perfect spot with its wild foliage, and shallow flowing stream dotted with natural rocks. The old lady might have wondered why we would stay there for long periods—with nary a sound of mirthful voices. Truth be told, we were busy posing our nude models  here and there–in one, recreating the instance Narcissus was enamored with his image as reflected on the water.

May let our imagination run wild and crazy. Mystic fascination and illusion dominated our way of looking at things. We would conjure scenes and visions of life on the edge, invent episodes and emote dialogues that were never said, try to wrestle with unnamed wanton passion, cock our ears to eavesdrop on the murmurings of ill-starred souls, echo sighs of regret and wishes, clutch at the frayed ends of uncertain moment, and tear away the trapping of trepidation.

We were a bunch of starving souls.  But we were lucky, that there was always some food for thought to fill the gnawing vacuity of our untamed hearts.

May was when we stocked our hearts with a harvest of dreams and remembrances.

But soon, the rains would come and drench us with copious reality. Thanks for the home of memory, May is secure in the warm comfort of our heart.

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