By Rex Catubig

 

CONVALESCING September through expectant October is when the tall, slender and majestic talahib bursts into silky white feathery flowers. And as the gentle Amihan blows from the northeast, the talahib sways and dances rhythmically with the refreshing breeze–waving its plumy gossamer quill bloom at the colorful windblown baga-baga and sapi-sapi that dance flirtatiously in the blue sky ballroom.

“Balik la” was how my mother described the mellow afternoon breeze that would gently sway the branches and rustle the dainty leaves of our ancient Acacia tree.

This is the closest equivalent of autumn in the Philippines—inspiring nostalgia but bereft of the rich yet somber melancholic overtone of the western version. It’s more of a softening transition, a moratorium from the relentless monsoon rains following the sultry summer, and a prelude to the cool Christmas weather. Yet amid the gentle surrender of the monsoon, the threat of a prevalent tropical typhoon could hover precariously over the calm surroundings.

The evanescence of this impetuous midseason is nowhere more evident than when the tranquil moment easily shatters as furious winds whip into a frenzy and lash at frail homes, cut down ancient trees and copious rains flood the soaked earth, washing away anything in harm’s way. Without rhyme or reason, it obliterates life in its path and blows away the flimsy images of a beautiful but fleeting interlude, putting an abrupt end to the serene but unstable season.

Thinking about this, I recall a passage from the Abbey of the Arts which laments the transiency of life: “I weep at the ache I feel when I consider how everything I love in this world will one day die. The season calls me to let go of false assumptions, wrests my too-small images of God from me as I enter the Mystery of dying and rising. The season demands that I release what I think is important to do and return to the only thing which matters that I remember – to love and to allow love to sculpt me, even as it breaks my heart”.

I realize only too well that in the capricious tropical autumn, my beloved talahib with its delicate, fragile flowers would be cruelly squashed and thrashed to the ground by the unforgiving malevolent storm. Yet, I fiercely believe that someday, in time and not a day too late, upon its wilted stalks life will obstinately sprout anew, defying the onslaught of death.

The changing and lovelier season will sculpt back the talahib’s glorious self and let its flowers wave once more under the grace of a more beneficent wind–thus negating the intransigence of nature and proclaiming the continuing and intermingling cycle of destruction, love, life and recovery.

Life wins when love prevails amid destruction. Hurt shapes the soul even as it breaks it.

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