Sanctuary

Days prior to that, my emotional state had been bruised by all the virus-related deaths I had been reading about on Facebook. Social media had become an obituary of sorts with all the sympathies pouring in for the bereaved.

Some who did not survive the fight with the virus were close to me. Many were friends or relatives of my friends. The facts were uncomfortable. Seemingly unbearable.

I woke up early on Black Saturday wishing it were already Easter Sunday – I wanted to pin my hopes on the Resurrection, anchor my dissipating spirit on new beginnings.

I dreaded looking at my phone. The heaviness in my chest continued. It was the feeling that something was caving in on me. I was afraid. Paranoia threatened to rear its ugly head. A slight clearing of my throat and the panic button was pushed. A slight joint pain would send me scampering to my room to isolate myself from my family.  

But that morning, I woke up at 5:47, and closed my eyes in prayer. I prayed fervently. The last time I had a very solemn conversation with God was in 2010, when my late father was fighting for his life in the ICU.

I prayed as the blanket coiled around my body. All so suddenly, even the humming of the air conditioner turned into Gospel music. The crowing of roosters in the backyard was a song of praise. The cooing of doves perched on the branches of our himbaba-o tree was the hosanna of the day.

I stuck it in my head: as long as we believe, we live. And like magic, I snapped off the weight pressing down on my chest. In prayers, I found my sanctuary. In myself, I found a temple where I could process my fears and turn them into unflinching faith.

It felt like Easter came a day early as I went to fix myself with a new spring to my step. I went to the garage and checked my bike. Before 6 a.m., I was already riding the wind for a chill ride.

Thank God for the IATF ruling that physical exercise can be done within the vicinity of the barangay during ECQ. I biked around town early in the morning when there were hardly any people on the streets.  

I pedaled to the lakeshore and my spirit was revivified. From then on, the lake in the neighborhood had become my sanctuary. There, I sniffed fresh air still perfumed with the scent of early morning dew. I watched water buffaloes take a dip in the lake. I enjoyed the sight of fishermen from afar about to present their haul of the day.

I ogled a beautiful tree by the lake, its boughs sprouting upright as if in salutation to the Creator. Even an abandoned nipa house is poetry by the lakeside. I even tried going up on a banca moored by the shore — and fell off into the water. I laughed at myself. It was bliss. It was pure bliss.

Simple joys are a sanctuary of the senses. If it was not the lake, I derived my peace and quiet in the middle of the rice field. How paradisiacal was it to live in Gulod, sandwiched by Laguna Lake in the east and a vast rice field in the west. I parked my bike amidst the profusion of bandera Española — and allowed my imagination to be carried by the flapping of the colorful petals of the flowers.

In my mind, the world was in order; the chaos brought about by the virus was not present. It was like a truce from virus warfare. I needed that escape that day.

Many people I know are already bothered emotionally by the pandemic. It’s like 2020 again with regard to fighting the virus anew. Even worse. Some friends find it hard to wake up in the morning and be cheerful for the new day.

I know the feeling. I was stress eating last Friday — something I did not do before. Powdered orange juice for a midnight snack? That was totally unthinkable if I were thinking straight.

Find your own sanctuary, I told my two friends, when they asked me how to deal with their fears. I found mine in prayers and in biking in spaces that were safe and with hardly any people. My other friend found it in cooking at home. Another one found his sanctuary in gardening, saying “If this ECQ version two extends to a month, I will already ask for reinforcement from my new friends.” He now refers to his chilis, tomatoes and basil in pots as his “new friends.”

Another one finds her sanctuary in painting on ceramic pots. One tone-deaf friend found her sanctuary in karaoke singing and her lack of musical pitch became the source of joy for her family. (It felt like last year again because sometime in April 2020, in my interview with experts at the National Center for Mental Health, they recommended tapping our creative side to combat the stress brought about by the pandemic.)

I regretted doing stress eating that night. But it was a wake-up call that, when things don’t go right in my system, all I need to do is to go to my sanctuary.

Happy Easter, everyone! Let’s always have the spirit of Easter in our hearts – that amidst the uncertainties of the time, amidst the pain that we endure as we say goodbye to friends and relatives who perished in the silent war, amidst all the dampened hopes, we can still find our own sanctuary. As long as we believe, we live. 

Keep safe.