David Whyte's The Opening of Eyes

My Advent meditation takes me to Jesus declaring himself as God in John 8:58. That God would choose to become man is astounding to me. Christmas reminds me of God's humility, first displayed in his earthly birth, followed by quiet childhood we know not much about, and ending with his love displayed on the cross -- an unmerited love towards us -- the greatest demonstration of love there is. 

In David Whyte's poem, the persona takes on a journey of discovery, or a rediscovery ("I knew then, as I had before..."), of the wonder of the great meaning of life. We toil and struggle on these earthly shores, but there comes a time when our pilgrimage comes to an end. I imagine the persona pausing in his journey and beholding, through careful contemplation, with his eyes opened, a vision of eternity -- or heaven, if you will. The vision overwhelms him: this is what he had been longing and searching for after "years of secret conversing / speaking out loud in the clear air."

The great meaning of life can be discovered through an encounter with God: Moses before the burning bush, and each one of us who have been called by God to his holy presence. We will land on a sure foundation, our dirty shoes left behind, because we are approaching holy ground. 

Nanay tells me she imagines heaven as a place where she will finally be embraced by the loving arms of Jesus: forgiven, accepted, loved. 

“The Opening of Eyes”
by David Whyte

That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.

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Christmas is upon us

Christmas is upon us. Beginning today and until the end of the Christmas season, I'm using the Biola University's Center for Christianity Culture and the Arts (CCCA) 2025 Advent Project. Each day I receive a devotional that  includes a verse to meditate on, a poem, a song/music, and a painting/mural/visual art form. Everything is tied up with a brief meditation.   

Most world religions acknowledge the historic Jesus as a great prophet/teacher. Yet, the trajectory of Scripture from beginning to end proclaims the deity of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and second person of the Trinity, who took on flesh to redeem the world from sin. The Nicene Creed, an early statement of faith recited by Christians for hundreds of years, articulates that Jesus is "the only-begotten Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father; through him all things were made. For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven, was incarnate from the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and was made man."

We understand Jesus to be the visible image of the invisible God. That Christ, the “Great I Am,” would leave the heavenly realm and humble Himself to walk among mere mortals is the awe-inspiring story of Christmas. The real significance of the Nativity is to be found in the incarnation of Christ. Our Advent meditation begins by pondering names that identify Christ as one with the Godhead. Each title has something particular to tell us about the Messiah in His relationship to God the Father. So come, let us worship and fall down before Christ Himself, our King and our God.

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Closing

Over the weekend I flew to Manila to attend the closing program of the 6th La Salle Creative Non-Fiction Writing Workshop hosted by the Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center and co-hosted by the Philippine College of Physicians. 

The culminating program was my chance to meet my co-panelists, Prof. Marj Evasco and Joti Tabula, this year’s workshop director. Prof. Marj gave me Annie Ernaux’s Nobel lecture printed in the elegant Fitzcarraldo edition. The book was wrapped in a white envelope. Inside was a heartwarming note in her exquisite handwriting. There was a butterfly attached to the thread that wound around the book. Professor Marj delivers her gifts with grace and thought. 

Joti, who balances clinical practice in internal medicine with his many roles in the writing community, welcomed us with an extemporaneous speech about writing and medicine. Dr. Nemi Nicodemus, the PCP president, sent over a recording, where he spoke so eloquently about writing as healing and even recited a short poem in Filipino.

Prof. John Iremil Teodoro, the director of the BNSCWC, gave me his latest poetry collection—poems in Kinaray-a, translated to Filipino and English, about Thailand. In his remarks during the program, he explained why he took a traditionally pre-med course in college: BS Biology. He had wanted to shift to something more related to humanities and the arts, but his friends grabbed his enrollment form and took away his enrollment money and, year after year, wrote BS Biology, leaving him no choice. 

I met the writer and activist Jen Soriano whose book Nervous is a celebration of language. In the essays she meditates on chronic pain and intergenerational trauma.  Earlier in the workshop I moderated the Q and A after her craft lecture. She was even more delightful in person, and she happily signed my copy of Nervous. She had misplaced her pen. When I offered my Pilot Custom 823 fountain pen, she declined, wary she’d break it, and looked for a ballpoint instead. I'm still reading Nervous; I can't recommend it enough. 

I also met our workshop fellows for the year, including the surgeon-poet Dr. Alyza Taguilaso gave a passionate reading of her poem that appears in her collection, Juggernaut. I sat beside Dr. Will Liangco, award-winning writer of the often-referenced collection, Even Ducks Get Liver Cancer, who lighted up when I told him one of our fellows, the psychiatrist Dr. Louanne Cortejos from Cagayan de Oro, was my batch mate in Kalayaan Dorm. Sir Will asked me, "Ano'ng floor mo?"

"Basement."

"Ah, may tubig kayo!" — something a freshman who had lived in the third floor would say. 

In the elevator that descended from the Henry Sy Building rooftop, Dr. China Castillo told me she looks forward to the workshop yearly—one of the highlights of her year. An OB-gyne and a speculative fiction writer, she had once joined the workshop as one of our fellows. This year she gave a craft lecture on character and plot, which she delivered beautifully. She also gave me Jia Tolentino’s essay collection! Jia's essay on the internet is so good, precisely writing what I've been thinking of: the internet was once a happy place; now it's almost hopeless.

What a year for reading and writing!

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Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth

On mornings like this, as the sun rises to begin a new day, a heaviness weighs upon me. I squeeze a pillow under my blanket, then slowly leave my bed to turn off the air conditioning and make myself coffee. Paul lies on the living room floor, oblivious to my presence.

The tasks are many. I pray for strength to carry out the good work that God has set before me (Ephesians 2:10). When I turn on my cell phone, kept at bay in an empty room, I imagine a string of notifications, missed calls, and unread images. I let my phone be. I do not rush to it -- that bewildering machine that distracts and entertains -- but make time to grind the coffee beans and wait for the water to boil.

Dawn is my favorite time of the day. Full of possibilities and calm, it allows me to gather my thoughts. Gathering is necessary because my mind is a clutter, no matter what shelves I put up to compartmentalize and organize my thoughts. Friends know me as a morning person. I do my best thinking when everyone is asleep, and there is a cool freshness, albeit short-lived, around me. A few hours later, humidity and heat will prevail, but I will have been done with my prayer and meditation. 

Perhaps people in my profession are familiar with -- and have grown used to -- the weight of stories of pain and suffering. Perhaps this is the "good work" set before me today, one in which I can honor God through quiet compassion. I need God's strength to get me through the day. I need a perspective that sees past the cancerous tumors.  

Music helps. This morning I discover Johannes Brahms's  Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, Herr Zebaoth. 

 

 

Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen,
Herr Zebaoth! 
Meine seele verlanget und sehnet sich
nach den Vorhöfen des Herrn;
mein Leib und Seele freuen sich
in dem lebendigen Gott.
Wohl denen, die in deinem Hause wohnen,
die loben dich immerdar. 

The English translation is: 

How amiable are thy tabernacles,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth
for the courts of the Lord:
my heart and my flesh crieth out
for the living God.
Blessed are they that dwell in thy house:
they will be still praising thee.  

  The song longs for heaven, where God dwells, and there is no more pain and suffering.

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Up and running

The La Salle Creative Non-Fiction Workshop for doctors is up and running. On its sixth iteration -- yes, it has since taken on a life of its own since its launch during the pandemic -- we now have allied medical professionals (nurses and a radiation technologist), not just physicians. The combined demographics allows a richer discussion. 

On our first session last night, we discussed promising works of creative non-fiction -- one in poetry, the other two in prose. 

As always I learn a great deal from my co-panelists, Prof. Marjorie Evasco and Dr. Joti Tabula. Joti is this year's workshop director. This annual meeting is a reunion of sorts, the only time of the year when I'm able to talk about writing and language. I love the practice of close reading the text -- looking over and beyond the content of the piece, but in the micro details of language, the unseen ambitions and threads that weave through the literary draft. What we work on are our fellows' drafts. Calling them that -- "drafts" -- allows a kind of liberty to offer recommendations for revisions, pinpoint the strength of the piece, and introduce questions that the authors can further explore and develop.  

Next week, we'll have two sessions to discuss the remaining creative non-fiction pieces.  

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Novem

October was a quiet time here: only two posts, compared to the bare minimum of four I had set out earlier this year. I simply had nothing worthwhile to write about, and life--outside life--happened. 

My body feels, and demands, that the final quarter is, and should be, a reason for rest, a wrapping up of the year's ambitions, a kind of slowing down. The past months were inundated with tasks and to-do lists, with travels and getaways squeezed in between. 

But November is here, reminding us that the year of our Lord 2025 is nearing its end. 

I will devote my time to recharging for the busy December season. With no intention to participate in more activities than I can handle, I have every intention to enjoy my books, write some stories, and see old friends. 

Where I come from, November means visits to the dead, not trick-or-treating. Halloween has recently become a fad in the cities, with children being made to dress up and demand candies. That all feels artificial to me. When I was a child, November was when I would go with uncles and aunties to the cemetery, hopping over graves--fearing that an arm would shoot up from the ground and grab my feet--and endless happy greetings with people I was required to "bless." Those were happy days!

When I drive to hospital to this morning, I expect heavy traffic near the cemeteries. Proximity permits remembrance. Soon I will write stories about my loved ones; creating stories allows me to have conversations with them. They come alive once more. 

We will visit our dead later today, or tomorrow, in Marbel and Banga, though the usual practice has been to do the pilgrimage one day earlier, when the traffic is more tolerable.  

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Why I've been remiss in posting anything for the past weeks

I know, I know. I should write something here. What happened to the supposed "weekly newsletter" I'm supposed to churn out regularly? Life got in the way. I have a life outside this blog, you see. What a liberating, comforting thing to write about. The remaining days of 2025 are a hazy mix of memorable meetings with old friends (not old old, if you know what I mean, but people I've known for many years),  travels to places that feel different to where I live, a deluge of work in clinics and the academia, with several things in between, and an ever-growing tsundoku, which includes a brand new ESV study Bible, a heartfelt novel about piano competition and friendships by Riku Onda, a meditation on Psalms by Ray Ortlund, and many more. 

So here's a quick update. And like this lady from Kariuzawa, 40 minutes (?) from Tokyo, I say, "Hello!"

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