Silanganan Lodge No. 19

It has been almost a year since the revival of the Tinig and this column has been circulating without a heading or a name.  At that time, the committee members were so obsessed with the mission of printing as many articles as possible by way of maintaining the Tinig as the lodge’s garrulous lingo.  Now that the Tinig was commended by no less than MW Romeo A. Yu as “masonically informative and enlightening,” there is nothing trivial in whiling away some time to cherish the Grandmaster’s praise and well, to think of an appropriate column name. What’s in a name?  Shakespeare argued in Romeo and Juliet that one may call sugar with any other name and will remain as sweet. But what the heck. If a storm can be named Milenyo, Reming, or Sweetie, so must this column be baptized, even in the most colloquial way, with only the monitor, keyboard, and mouse standing as its obliging godparents.

Countless words and phrases hovered in my mind as I searched for a heading. My journalism professor told us that it had to be catchy to attract the readers. But for purposes of the Tinig, the name must surpass the requisite of being simply tricky, it must have a masonic intonation befitting a masonic newsletter. So, the suggested names came on and passed by without a form that could give them good recognition. But one heading remained: A distinct knock. And I will spend this entire column explaining why it stood out from the rest and assumed a face deserving a space in the Tinig’s precious pages.

A knock connotes many things. When I was a child, a knock on our door triggered a peculiar sense of mixed emotions. It was in the early 1980’s and the headlines only speak of the violent times: Superman was killed in Dallas, there’s no love left in the palace, someone took the Beatle’s lead guitar.  And a knock on the door took me to such a compromising position where I would unavoidably confront the thought of opening to a stranger forcing his entry from a drinking spree with a stainless butcher’s knife in tow, or to my father arriving  home early from a court hearing with a brown paper bag of MA Mon Luk mami in hand. It was fascinating how, recurrently, a child simply forgets to ask who the knocker was.

Knocking also manifests one’s respect to the house’s owner and his authority over his home. It is a humble admission that, in the estate of another, no matter how tattered it may be, even the king’s horses and all the king’s men are just pregnable guests whose admission thereto depends fully on the host’s kind hospitality. In fact, it is said, if my memory serves me well, that a man’s house is his castle. Its roof may fall. Its walls may shake. The wind may enter. The rain may enter. But the King of England cannot enter. Wittingly, the renowned influence of kings cannot precede the cogent power of one vassal’s timid knock.

From the sublime to the absurd, as they say, knocking has been a part of almost everyone’s daily life. I remember a classmate in elementary knocking his chin up after a bully clobbered his head hard with a Tinig ng Panitik textbook. The process, I would learn later, would supposedly put his brain back on its proper place after such mind-rocking assault.  There is more. Kuya Dante loves to knock on woods to drive away bad luck and to prevent an omen from taking place.

And more than anything else, knocking is a parcel of the masonic mystical traditions.  A candidate feels a persistent knock on his heart to adopt and live by the doctrines of the craft. For the reason that it is in this sacred place where he will be made a mason in the first instance, such stir of emotion must equate, for lack of a better example, with the sensation when his heart leaps up to behold his lover, or any person for that matter, who deserves nothing less than his unqualified sincerity.  It is only with his pure heart – untainted with mercenary objectives – that he can open himself up and embrace the masonic tenets of brotherly love, relief, and truth.

Thereupon, after proving himself worthy and well qualified, he knocks on the lodge’s door to at last seek the light in masonry.  And still more. The opening and closing of a lodge during special and stated meetings are attended by the Deacon’s and the Tyler’s knocks.  No business of any lodge can ever be conducted without these omnipresent rituals. 

Life is a series of knocking at doors. What will happen next is a riddle that is only solved by taking one’s chance to see what lies beyond the wood, metal, or whatever stuff such door is made of. On the other side may be an enemy or a friend.  It may be a dog or a sphinx. It may be the entire universe. It may be an empty space. But the entire experience will lead us to knowledge and truth, and will teach us a lesson or more.  In the end, the good man has become a better man.  All with the simple expedient of daring to make one, two, or three distinct knocks. 

And so, the column finally has a name. It is funny but it has been there all along. 

Just knocking under my nose.

Published August 2007  

Simula nang pinagbuksan ang aking katok sa pinto ng kamasonan, at salungat sa mga babala ng ilang walang kabatiran na cowan, ang daigdig na aking kinagagalawan ay hindi kumipot.   Sa halip, ito’y lumawak at umaliwalas.  Ang mga hindi matuwid na opinyon sa iba’t ibang paksa hinggil sa mga tao, mga lugar, at mga bagay, kung hindi man tuluyang lumisan ay nahilot ng liberal na isipan. Aking nabatid na ang ganitong kamangmangan ay pader lamang na humaharang sa pagsilip sa matingkad na katotohanan. 

Totoo ngang mabisang pagtuklas sa katotohanan ay ang pagbasa sa mga aklat o libreta tungkol sa mga tao, mga lugar at mga bagay. Subalit ang mas mainam pa rin na pagdiskubre sa kaalaman ay ang literal na paglakbay sa mga lugar na dati rati ay nababasa lamang sa Daily Inquirer at namamasdan sa mga istante ng mga kartelon sa Alemar’s o National Bookstore, at ang pagkilala nang tunay sa mga tao’ng taglay ang mga mukhang mas madilim pa sa kulimlim ng dakong katimogan. Wika nga ng isang pantas, ang pinakamahusay na guro ay ang mismong karanasan.  

At kung bilang lang naman ng paglalakbay ang gagamiting pangtakal sa lawak ng kaalaman, tiyak mataas ang antas ng mga kuya sa Bureau of Internal Revenue Traveler’s Haven (BIRTH). Sa kinaugaliang buwanang pagtatagpo sa malalayong bayan, at katugon sa kanyang pangalan, ang BIRTH ay kasingkahulugan na nga ng salitang manlalakbay. 

Maraming layunin ang paglibot ng BIRTH: dalawin ang mga kapatid sa Masonerya sa ibat’ ibang lohiya; ipadama ang kalinga ng mga Mason sa mga nangangailangan sa ibayong lalawigan; o ipaunawa sa iba’ng lugar ang tunay na doktrina ng Masonerya. Kasama na rito ang pagdanas sa mga kakaibang paghahandog ng bawat kultura at lokal.  

Sa unang sulyap pa lamang, isa ng kawili-wiling karanasan ang pagsama sa mga lakarin ng mga kuya sa BIRTH. Natikman ko ang pastel ng Cagayan de Oro; ang durian ng Davao; ang chaolung ng Palawan; at ang balbakwa ng Bohol. Nakilala rin ni Kuya Dante si Aida, Lorna at Fe na lahat ay tubong Tagaytay. May nakapagbulong nga rati, hindi mapapantayan ng anumang halaga ang magagandang alalala na lumipas na. 

Ngunit sa pangalawang pagmamasid, at sa isang malalim na pagninilay, hindi na nga kailangan ng dalubhasang siyentipiko para mawari ang mas makabuluhang aral ng mga paglalakbay na ito:  ang mga lugar ay katulad din ng pangkalooban ng isang nilalang.  Kailangang malibot at masuri upang makilala ng lubusan.  Ito lang ang daan para sa pagbabago tungo sa kabutihan. 

Noong ika-20 ng Hulyo 2007, tinalaga sa kanilang tungkulin ang mga pamunuan ng BIRTH. Bagamat malapit sa puso ng Lohiya Silanganan ang lahat ng opisyal nito, isang karangalan ang mahalal si Kuya Ed, dating DDGM ng NCR-F, bilang pangulo at si Kuya Alan bilang pangalawang pangulo. Daan-daang pagbati sa inyo mga bro! Nawa’y ipagpatuloy ninyo ang legado ng paglalakbay sa magagandang lugar ng ating bayan, at paglalayag sa mga landas ng katotohanan. Hindi maipagkakaila, ang mukha ng katotohanan ay maaring makita sa bawat lugar na mapupuntahan at sa bawat tao’ng makakainuman.  

At bawat pagtuklas, sa aking pagkakaalam, ay isa ngang uri ng pagsilang.

What’s the fuss about July? 

Not much really. 

As we discussed the declaration of the Philippine Independence last month, many still are not aware that this declaration was belatedly recognized by Spain and the United States only on July 4, 1946 due to the Treaty of Paris whereby the conquered Philippines was ceded by Spain to the United States “in exchange for an undetermined indemnity”.  Incidentally, July is also the month when the United States of America, Argentina, Venezuela, Belgium, Peru, among other countries, declared independence from their respective colonizers. On July 20, 1969, man first landed on the moon. 

And more about history. It all started when Mark Antony, the Roman general and orator, tinkered with the calendar and named one of its months after his fellow triumvirate member, Julius Ceasar. Before the calendar was changed, July was called Quintiles and was the 5^th month of the Roman year. 

The Saxon name of July is Maed-Monath meaning meadow month. Hence, in four-seasoned nations, the earth trips with its sax through the jazz-crazed cicadas. Contours turn green-eyed with the growing vegetables, grains, and grass on the fields. Butterflies pilot their cesnas. And chickens do the limbo dance on old Mac Donald’s farm. Time to reap what has been sowed.

Quite the opposite, in this country where the greens of the west are too far-out to be seen, July has almost always been associated with the grays. But no matter how Kuya Dante would violently argue that the rains, dripping trees, wet and empty alleys, shied sunrise, and starless and moonless nights of July make him sick and sad, I have always been at home with the dark clouds and storms. And the reason is that July, for me, is harvest time. 

Being born on the 9^th of July many years ago, it is on this month, more than any other months of the year, when I introspect and look at the mirror, so to speak, to see my own set of produce. Oftentimes, and for some reasons, especially on those nights before I blow my birthday cake and with the soaked wind petting my face, a muscled insomnia would force my mind down memory lane. Past the boy bathing in the rain. Past the teen-ager griping over his first gulp of gin. Past the college dude with rebel friends reciting angry poems in the midst of the rain and beer. Now atop the hill of adulthood, how do I see the world laid bare before my eyes, and what is the meaning of life that I have known thus far? 

In the essay entitled I am Freemasonry, it is told that the essence of life is to fulfill the duties to God, country, neighbors, and one’s self. A portion thereof reads as follows –  

By signs and symbols, I teach the lessons of life and of death, and the relationship of man with GOD and of man with man. My arms are widespread to receive those of lawful age and good report who seek me of their own free will. I accept them and teach them to use my working tools in the building of men, and thereby find direction in their own quest for perfection so much desired and so difficult to attain. I lift up the fallen and shelter the sick; hark the orphan’s cry, the widow’s tear, the pain of the old and the destitute. I am not church, nor party, nor school, yet my sons bear a full responsibility to GOD, to county, to neighbor and themselves. 

Once again, just like those July nights before the “anniversary of my birth certificate”, the soaked winds beckon. But that will be alright. The continuing desire to understand and go after the real essence of one’s existence is just as important as one country’s call for independence, or a meadow’s crop gathering, or landing on a newly discovered planetoid’s surface.

Before age one, I was taught well how to “close-open” my hands. By the doctrines of the craft, I rather keep them open now for the millions of worthy men out there falling in stormy despair.

And really, not much fuss about that.

It stands for Independence Day celebrated on June 12, brothers. 

History books are replete with accounts that battles were fought and many a patriot’s blood sprawled like monsoon raindrops on parched country roads for the recognition of one of man’s basic rights – the right to liberty or independence. These wars were even dramatized in several books and movies perhaps to make the readers or viewers timely realize that freedom – like a love lost – is more appreciated in its absence. 

In Kuya Dante’s favorite movie, Braveheart, William Wallace, perfectly portrayed by Mel Gibson, announced before hesitant Scottish rebels the beggarly worth of a freedom fighter’s life if only to yield the prize of freedom. He decried – 

Sons of Scotland … I see a whole army of my countrymen here in defiance of tyranny… You have come to fight as free men and free men you are… What will you do without freedom? ... Will you now fight?!... Fight and you may die... Run and you will live... but only for a while... And dying in your beds many years from now… Would you be willing to trade all of these…from this day to that… for one chance… just one chance.. to come back here and tell our enemies… that they may take our lives… but they will never take our freedom!!! 

The battle of Stirling Bridge did not end up as a luxurious ballroom dancing for the British and Wallace. Heads rolled and human torsos flew around the battlefield as brutal ransom for the release of Scotland. Eventually, the rebels were defeated but their dream of independence lived on – unshackled by English bolts and chains. 

The universal thirst for freedom, aside from the arbitrary taxes and duties, was the driving force when the Americans rebelled against the British and finally broke free from the latter on July 4, 1776. The freeborn Englishmen argued to their conquerors that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain “unalienable rights” and among these are life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. To justify the rebellion, Thomas Jefferson and his team wrote this arresting opening sentence in the Declaration of Independence  - 

When in the Course of human Events, it becomes necessary to for one People to dissolve the Political Bands, which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of the Earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitles them, a decent Respect to the Opinion of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the Separation.” 

More recently, the uprisings in Africa against apartheid (Afrikaans word for “apartness“ involving the enforced geographical separation of the races) drew blood  that as poetically put  “turned out to be just as red as their white brothers’ ”. The African national consciousness paved the way for the “wind of change” speech of British Prime Minister Harold MacMillan on February 3, 1960. 

In the 20^th century, the processes which gave birth to the nation states of Europe are being repeated all over the world. Today, the same thing is happening to Africa, and the most striking impression I have formed since I left London a month ago, is of the strength of African national consciousness. The wind of change is blowing through this continent, and whether we like it or not, this growth of consciousness is a political fact. 

The article’s closing statement brings us back to our own history. Some patriots live their dreams. Some patriots just chased the nights away. It is our pride that our brethren – Aguinaldo, Bonifacio, Rizal, Mabini, Luna, and others – made their valiant steps 109 years ago to make their dreams converge with reality. The sentiment was overwhelming. A free and independent Philippines was worthy of their lives. Their deeds took us to where we are now. 

Caught up in a traffic at 12:00 noon earlier, I was thinking where to eat my lunch. My right leads me to Greenhills or Makati. Left directs me to SM North. Straight means I could go home and feast on my aunt’s lutong bahay. Come to think of it. This predicament is also a gift. The right to choose whether one would eat burger, pinapaitan or beef mami and where to eat it is like love – lost or found.  By our heroes’ labors, it’s free. 

Happy Independence Day!

It’s election time. And I have a candidate in mind. 

Several political killings back, a gullible wealthy man in our hometown, perhaps bluffed by his beer-bellied drinking buddies in one of their extended boozetalks under the mosquito-infested sampaloc tree in his backyard, decided to run for councilor. The next day, still negotiating with his hang-over, he filed his certificate of candidacy and thereafter busied himself campaigning. His political cry? Juan de la Cruz. Makatao. Makahayop. Macapuno. Of course, he lost. The trees did not vote for him. 

But not everyone in this country is as intelligent as trees. With all due respect to those laudable incumbents and competitors, clowns continue to seize both the circus and the session halls. Crooks garnered not only goons, guns, and gold, but they conquered the barangay, municipal, and provincial seats as well. Faithless promises built on sands still sell like hotcakes in the gullible voters’ ears. Centuries ago, a worthy man ran as king but, as a song vividly put it, we nailed him to the cross.

It is an accepted dogma that Masonry does not need men for their honors and wealth; it wants them for their good deeds and virtues. And true to form, this bet of mine will be the builder of the Utopia and even so, the catcher in the rye. He is the epitome of the guiding principles that our guru brothers have been telling us through the years. Let us then listen to these words of wisdom:

To the gentle, many will be gentle; to the kind, many will be kind. A good man will find that there is goodness in the world; an honest man will find honesty in the world; and a man of principles will find principle and integrity in the minds of others. But to the impure, the dishonest, the false hearted, the corrupt and the sensual, occasions come everyday, and in every scene, and through avenue of thought and imagination. He makes occasions and takes advantage of opportunities, and he throws wide open the gates of his heart and welcomes bad visitors and entertain them with lavish hospitality. (Excerpt from The Golden Harvest, The Philippine Bodies A. & A.S.R.)

I remember Kuya Dante forewarning me that that politics, no matter how malignant or benign, must not find its way to any Masonic discussion as “it merely breeds dissensions and creates faction among men”. Both because the times are so challenging and the altered-pop-songs-turned-political-jingles are so deafening that I was, in blatant defiance to such unwritten rule, tempted to openly and publicly endorse one candidate. And so, together brethren, let us vote Wisely. He is a contender in each and every seat. 

For our children’s great grandchildren whose little hands we may not be able to kiss hello but whose fragile future we must not dare kiss goodbye.

It was the 27th day of January 2007.  All dressed up in my jusi barong and wearing my polished black leather shoes, I was ready for the installation of new officers for the year.  I remembered a brother’s text message – “Mag jusi tayo bro para pogi”.  The time was 8:45 A.M. and strangely, the Capitol Masonic Temple was empty – very unlike Kuya Dante’s meaty and electric tales as he finished his last bottles of San Mig Lite in Tonio’s Grill some cold nights before the event. Conspicuously, the CMT carpark where atom-sized dust particles barely had any leg room to float around on an occasion like this was suddenly a desolate estate where the world, figuratively speaking, could freely roll at large.   Something was wrong and I had no excuse. Even if the price to shell overt negligence comes in cut-rate bargain, I would not dare spend a single cent to fill the tiny purse.   This culprit needed a spanking.  There was no other way to read clearly and aloud the invitation:  SRT stands for Scottish Rites Temple and, man, there was no way it stood between Greenhouse and Madrigal joints at Quezon City. So much for the pogi points. 

Seriously, one welcomes the installation ceremony with a slight feeling of sadness that a worthy man from the East would come down to end his term. It was not that his shine had started to wane.  Simply, the time, short as it was, had come for him to pass the flame. But such plaintive sentiment was always compensated with a consolation that another qualified master had taken the torch to keep the lodge’s light continuously ablazed. Sweetly sending-off the dusk to embrace the dawn, at least, for me, epitomizes the entire installation ceremony. The end of the past master’s year-long reign and the beginning of the present master’s 12 month regime sets the perpetual chain in motion sustaining masonry’s timeless ideals and visions. 

Khalil “Willy” Calinawan, our Muslim brother, as we all know him, is the immediate past master of the lodge. By his conversion of faith, Kuya Willy already surrendered himself to his Creator. There is nothing dramatic about that. Such attribute is only the literal meaning of a Muslim signifying a person “who give himself to God”.  For this article, I requested him to write a short autobiography focusing on his Masonic credentials.  The original plan was for me to just squeeze the juicy parts thereof, or to just summarize the same to suit my space. But, as a fellow foreplayer of the English language and a skillful romancer of pleasant rhetorics, any attempt on my part to revise his work may only result to an unjust portrayal, or worse, a rude carnage of his thoughts. Out of respect, I will rather reproduce his brief chronicle: 

A nipa hut in the middle of a rice field; “poster-perfect” would best describe that stretch of land along J. Rizal (now a segment of C-5), in Bagong Ilog, Pasig City.  Small wonder that old folks still refer to its old name, Kubo, long after the nipa hut has given way to commerce and industry; not the least of which being the construction of the Silanganan Masonic Temple in 1959.

The place is a stone’s throw away from the house where I grew up.   Most Saturdays the Temple would be abuzz with activities, oftentimes teeming with women and children. Ambling inside the Temple compound one afternoon in 1963, I met with relatives, family friends and bosom buddies. It seemed like a reunion of sorts.

In the family, my father was the only one who had taken a keen interest in the Knights of Columbus, a rival fraternity, but that seemed inevitable.  A naval officer by occupation, he could not help being fascinated with an organization that uses the tools of Navigation (the way Masonry uses the tools of Architecture). But that had to be the reason; I cannot imagine my father, a trained physicist, as being fiercely Catholic.

In 1967, the boys of Silanganan joined the Order of DeMolay. So did my older brother; while I opted to continue with my role as a Knight’s son for as long as it pleased my father. He passed away at the onset of martial rule in 1972. I spent the next four years trying to get myself a college education;  gravitating toward Civil Engineering, the language of Masonry.

On September 9, 1976, shortly after passing the Board exams, I was entered as an Apprentice with Silanganan Lodge No. 19. Following some schooling in computer-aided Design, I took my rite of passage on March 19, 1977.   I was raised to the sublime degree of Master Mason on December 9, 1978.

It was a bad time to be joining anything. I was starting to raise a family, slaving for wages, while trying to set up my own business in metal-finishing and construction. In 1983, I was elected Junior Warden against my better judgment; for it was increasingly becoming clear to me that the economy was in a shambles. Later that year, I decided to seek my fortune in Saudi Arabia and enjoyed every minute of it, sometimes with my family. In 1996 I got me a job working for an Australian company based in Sydney.  I came back in 2001.  In all that time, the Lodge had me suspended for non-payment of dues.

I said, to no one in particular, why should I care to pay my dues?  When I came to Silanganan as a member in 1978 the lodge was being torn to pieces by infighting, over business deals gone sour. This went on through the 1980’s.  In the 1990’s I heard that they were fighting over a huge sum of money generated from the sale of the Temple.  It was truly disheartening.

On hindsight, I realized, if we didn’t have those problems, we will just have to invent them. Maybe the idealism of youth had taken the better of me. Maybe I was being unrealistic.  Perhaps I can try looking at the problem as an insider.  So I got myself reinstated in 2003.

I have not gone beyond 3rd degree. To my mind, Higher Bodies offer more of the same. Maybe when I, the student, am ready, the teacher will come. So far, real and essential Masonry can be found only in a Blue Lodge. My vision is for a brother Master Mason desirous of self-improvement to join (so that there can be 2 of us) in the esoteric membership of Jeproks, The Order of the Flying Carpet[1], which I founded, and slowly work himself up until he no longer deserves to be a member! 

Jose Jonathan “Jojo” R. Atienza, the newly-installed worshipful master, was raised to the sublime degree of master mason on November 9, 1992 in his mother lodge, Dapitan Lodge No. 21.  He served as its Secretary from 1993 – 1994.  He became a dual member of this lodge sometime in 2003.   He is a member of the Scottish rite and Quezon City Bodies.   Boosting his Masonic credentials, he is also a member of the following:   Shriner, Katib Saigon Oasis, NAIA Travelers Square and Compasses, Maharlika Shrine Oasis, Filipinos Shrine Oasis, Royal Order of the Ancient Cork. 

If accessibility is your game, Kuya Jojo is your man. With his 3 or more cellular phones, one may just search his contact numbers from the phonebook, and in no time, he will find in Kuya Jojo a drinking buddy, a trouble-shooter, a friend, and a brother.  If he does not come to a brother’s aid, and that, I bet, will not happen, and if it does, it will come only with the most valid of all excuses, the latter will amazingly discover himself in the company of a blinddate, whatever that means.  Kidding aside, being the founder of the Sunbro, Kuya Jojo, in effect, has made himself available to every brethren 24/7.  The packed attendance of the brethren from different lodges during the installation ceremony only reveals his popularity in the Masonic community. 

In the coming years, many more masters will assume the coveted seat in the East. At the end of each term, it is only hoped that every Worshipful Master will leave his post not only with a sense of pride that the East – with all its esteemed authority and jewels – has honored him;  but more so, with a sense of fulfillment that he – with his exemplary acts and deeds – has honored it. 

There is no material reward for being the lodge’s leader. The Worshipful Master will only carry with him the respect and adulation of the members based on what he has done during his term. A gentle tap on the shoulder from his peers is usually what he will take home after a year of laborious service and selfless sacrifices. Yes, in the absence of adequate praises, such gesture says it all and it is well engraved in his invisible trophy:  Well done, my brother. Well done. 

Congratulations to the new officers!  More power!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year! 

The song says it all. And so, we gladly would wear our new windbreakers; would drive along the lively Ayala Avenue; would warble those Jackson 5 Christmas medleys; would set-up the Christmas tree; would meet friends and would drink a bottle of beer or two (or three, or four, and so on and so forth). Of course, December was fast approaching. At last, the long wait was off. And the countdown normally would end, at least, insofar as Kuya Dante was concerned, on the last day of November. 

This time around, the celebration for the advent of December was devastatingly different. On November 30, news circulated that a storm named Reming (International Name: Durian), with sustained winds of 190 kilometers per hour and gusts of up to 225 kilometers per hour, would hit the Southern Tagalog provinces, and its impact would be felt in Metro Manila. There were warnings that this howler was more ferocious than Milenyo, the typhoon that rocked the country last September. Later that day, public storm signal number 4 was announced over Catanduanes, Albay, and Camarines provinces.  In affected provinces, the sweet December breeze unveiled itself as tempestuous winds that crashed and collapsed walls and houses; multi-colored lights were replaced by burning candles as electricity bogged down; the merry greetings to neighbors became hushed stares as clear corroboration of an overwhelming fear and confusion; and the stretched arms of the people, usually, a common gesture to welcome the kind blessings of the times, crinkled and folded to form clasping hands praying for survival. Candy canes and mistletoes were all gone in a flash. 

On the days that followed, the grotesque spoilages of Reming found themselves as the fresh meat of the local news. In one broadsheet, a picture of 10 dead people recovered from the mudslide and whose bodies were piled on the street of Legazpi City for identification purposes, was printed on the front page. In another, there were snapshots of a labyrinth of plywood, concrete, and tin roofs sprawled on the ground. Twenty four hours ago, these mesh of stocks used to be the homes of the villagers. Television news gave more revealing accounts of the ruination. They captured the rampaging winds, seemingly endowed with mighty but violent hands, pushing and rocking, even uprooting, those sturdy coconut trees. In separate interviews, the victims lamented that due to time and financial constraints,  they had no choice but to improvise coffins using shattered wooden walls for their dead relatives. As of date, more than 800 people were confirmed dead, countless injured, and more than 1,000 still missing. 

A question surfaced: How could they still survive in the midst of this catastrophe? As masons, the answer hovers in our minds where we learned one of our  important lessons, that is, to give hope to the hopeless; or, to share our moneys to the penniless. The richness of the heart earned in time through charitable undertakings is the true wealth of a mason. The fact is, under Masonic tenets, charity is the virtue that provides our flesh and blood. We need not scour our old books to verify such teaching, we just have to recall our escort’s guiding voice in one of our travels - 

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. “

“And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all the faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.”

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.” 

Many of our countrymen responded to the call. The national and some foreign governments had extended their aids. Indeed, one may recall, this was precisely the time of the year when Saints Joseph and Mary desperately searched for a place so that the latter could give birth to their son, Jesus Christ. Like the homeless and helpless people of the Bicol Region now, Joseph and Mary did not really desire admission into those elegant mansions of the rich and proud but, as it is today, they are simply knocking into the hearts of men. 

Until then, and by our bounteous hearts, we shall continue singing our song: It’s the most wonderful time of the year! 

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!!

Published October 14, 2006

As a lawyer, the toils of my labor sometimes take me to strange and unfamiliar places.  Often-times, I found myself in a cold and strange hotel room hundreds of kilometers away from the comforts of my own bed and pillows. Like a traveler in search of the lost word, I, too, in the deep of the night, and somewhere between that cryptic line of getting high due to inevitable anxiety over the next day’s hearing and getting low due to sheer exhaustion, thought whether the judge hearing my case speaks the same language as my opposing counsel. Unavoidably, for an outlander like me, a hometown camaraderie, with all due respect to the integrity of all the magistrates, can always be a potential threat lurking in the dark. 

The first trip to Bayombong, Nueva Vizcaya last September to attend an annulment and custody case was of no exception. Still dazed and dizzy from the nauseating effects of the winding Dalton Pass, I arrived at Saber Inn located near the provincial capitol of Nueva Vizcaya at about 9:00 p.m. After dinner, my driver, Philip, and I emptied 2 bottles of beer, feasted on the native tapang usa and dinakdakan as pulutan, and belted some of those Rivermaya’s. When we went to our respective rooms, I realized that our nocturnal activities were not even enough to tame my unfounded uneasiness. And so, with the intermittent sound of a tricycle passing the ordinarily quiet provincial highway, I had the entire night to entertain all such gratuitous jitters. The hearing was set at 2 p.m. the following day after all, I thought. 

The sun was unusually prompt in Nueva Vizcaya. It was only 6 a.m. but it was already surprisingly bright and relatively hot. I ate my breakfast, a sumptuous longsilog and hot chocolate, but only after cordially reminding the waiter once more not to speak in the native dialect as I could not understand the same. Thereupon, I went to the hotel’s coffee table placed outside the inn, almost on the sidewalk. Preparing myself for the hearing, I read the case folder and the textbook that I brought with me as my working tool. 

Moments later, 2 cars drove by.  When the car behind thrice blew its horn, the other car stopped. Both drivers alighted, shook hands, and talked for a while. When the driver of the other car left, I approached the owner of the remaining car. I jokingly said, “Bro, nasilaw ako sa sticker mo. Traveler ka?”  I pointed to the decal that was fastened on his car’s rear glass.  He replied, “Yes, I am.”  The moment I uttered “Kuya”, he excitedly shook my hand. We introduced each other, exchanged cellphone numbers, and mentioned some names. He said that he was rushing for an appointment and that he would attend to me after his meeting. His name is Rodel C. Abellana of the Guillermo E. Bongolan Memorial Lodge No. 330. 

After Kuya Rodel left, I noticed another car with the same decal parked infront of the hotel. Seconds later, the owner came. I likewise approached him. He is Reynaldo Sagana of the Nueva Vizcaya Lodge No. 144. He invited me for a joy ride around the place, preferably to visit his lodge at Solana and to meet some of the brethren there. Much as I wanted to tour, I had to politely decline his kind offer as my hearing was just several minutes away and I still had to study my case. Momentarily, Kuya Rodel called and asked me how I was, and reminded me that he would take me to his lodge and to those nice places in Nueva Vizcaya when he was done with his meeting.

In a wink of an eye, the place that seemed so foreign turned out to be a familiar land to behold. The atmosphere of hostility that I unfairly implanted in my naïve and suspecting mind became the climate of local warmth and brotherly love. Needless to say, my 2-day trip to Bayombong, Nueva Vizcaya went by without a hitch. And whether my adversary spoke the same language as the judge was another story. What was important was that, apart from securing a joint custody for my client on that particular hearing, I received my priceless wage. A surplus to the rice, corn, and oil that I, as a mason, rightfully deserve, it is the reward of transforming a strange and alien province, 400 kilometers, more or less, away from my bedroom, my own foster and comforting home.

Ang sabi ni Lois Lane sa pelikulang Superman Returns, hindi na raw kailangan ng mundo si Superman. Mahirap yata matanggap sa umpisa ang nasabing pasya. Dahil katulad ng karamihan – na minsan naging payat, uhuging musmos, at mapatakan lang ng ambon ang marupok na bumbonan ay sinusugod na sa ospital, hindi ko lang itinuring na isang idolo ang pambihirang anak ni Jor-el. Malimit ko ring nilunggati na magkaroon ng kagila-gilalas na birtud ng isang taga-Krypton. Ayon kasi sa isang saliga sa sikolohiya, ang bawat bata, dala na rin ng kanyang takdang kakayahan, ay kusang naghahanap ng bayaning makikidamdam. 

Kaya parang si Kuya Dante dati, simula nang mapanood ko ang Superman the Movie noong 1978 madalas ko nang pinangarap na, habang matulin akong tumatakbo, dahan-dahan ko namang hinuhubad ang aking unipormeng polo sa elementarya, at marilag na kikinang ang pang-ilalim kong kasuotang asul at pula, may sinturon pang dilaw. Mas mabilis pa sa rumaragasang bala. Kayang lumipad sa magkabilang gusali sa isang kisapmata. Hindi ibon. Hindi eroplano. Ako na si Superman. At akin ngang iiwan ang mga libro sa mesa, lilisanin pansamantala ang mga takdang-aralin upang makipaglaro sa mga ulap at mga maya; pagbubuhol-buholin ang mga kaaway ko sa kabilang barrio; at magpapasiklab sa aking hinahangaan dilag, na kung hindi ako nagkakamali, Nerissa yata ang pangalan. 

Ngunit, sa paglipas ng mga taon, lumipas din nang hindi pansin ang mga makabatang panagimpan. At ang mundo, hindi katulad ng likhang isip na komiko, ay hindi na naisasalarawan sa pagbagsak ng mga eroplano, sa pagtibak ng mga gusali, sa pagbitak ng lupa at pagguho ng mga kabundukan, at sa paglantad ng mga kasuklam-suklam na kinapal buhat sa malalayong pangkalawakan. 

Hindi man sumalakay ang mga makapangyarihang katunggali, ang tao ay nahaharap sa iba’t ibang uri ng pakikipaglaban. Madalas, mas malubha pa sa paghahasik ni Lex Luthor, Gen. Zad, Gus Gorman, o Nuclear Man ang pagsabog ng ating mga kasalanan. Sinasadya man o hindi, ang tao ay nakasasakit ng damdamin ng kanyang kapwa – kapamilya, kaibigan, at iba pa na wala naman talagang kinalaman. Ang tunay na pakikipagsapalaran, sa totoong buhay, ay nagaganap sa kalooban – sa puso at sa isip, kung saan dapat binibithay nang maingat at maselang pagsusuri ang latak ng kasaman sa taganas na kabutihan. 

Sa bawat segundo, patuloy na ang mundo ay gumugulo sa kapinsalaang dala na rin ng ating sariling kapintasan. Ang galit, inggit, o panibugho ay mga tampalasang hindi naman nag-aanyong kalaban.  Ang kasakiman, kapusokan, kayamuan, o kamundohan ay mga kontrabidang nabababalot pa nga sa mapang-akit na kasuotan. Hindi man makita ang malupit na kadigma, sila ang mga sumisira sa buong sangkalupaan. 

Sa aking pagsubaybay kay Superman, namangha ako nang tapatan sa kakayahan at kagustohan ng isang nilalang na ipagsanggalang ang daigdig - iligtas ang bantayog ni Liberty, ayosin ang nasirang Great Wall of China, ibalik sa anyo ang napinsalang Mt. Rushmore, ipagtanggol ang mga naaapi, at sa marami pa niyang katapangang-gawa. Ngunit, sa mahigit dalawang oras kong panonood sa pinakahuling arangkada ng Man of Steel, akin ding nalirip na mas kailangan ng mundo ang mga taong handang magmason sa mundong tuloy-tuloy na nawawalat. Wala man kapa, may tapi naman ng kabutihan; hindi man nakakalipad, abot langit naman ang pagkakawanggawa; hindi man malakas ang bisig, matikas naman ang disiplina; at hindi man bakal ang katawan, bukal naman ang kalooban, handang umunawa, umintindi,  at magmahal sa mga kinauukulan. Dahil sa mga ganitong trabaho, maari nang maisaayos ang mundo.

Sapagkat sa pananaw ng mga mason, ang mundo - tulad din ng sarili – ay isang templong maligasgas ang mga tabiki. Kaya nga sa paggagawa at pagkukumpuni, bukod sa kumpas, eskuwala at nibel, kailangan ay dulos na makapagpapakinis sa karayagan at sa lahat ng kanyang hanggahang kasulokan. Para sa bandang huli, lumatag, dumulas, at kumalat ang simento ng pagmamahalan sa buong sangkatauhan. Ito lang ang paraan kung paano makakamtan ang tunay na kapayapaan. At ang susi dito sa misteryosong kaharian, sa aking pagkakaalam, hindi nga si Superman, bagkus, mga mason lamang ang maaring pagsimulan.

Ask any mountaineer why he would climb a mountain and, for sure, he would give as his answer this above cliché. Simple as it may sound, such statement is pregnant with many profound and philosophical undertones. It denotes hurdling challenges; conquering fears; testing mortal limitations, and many more. Without exception, this must have fired the  imagination, and verily, the motivation of Leo Oracion, Erwin Emata, and Romy Garduce in trying to master the mightiest peak of all, Mt. Everest. 

Located on the border of Nepal and Tibet, just north of India, Mt. Everest, standing at 29,028 feet, is the highest mountain in the world. It was named after the surveyor-general, George Everest, of the Great Trigonometrical Survey of India, in 1852, although long before that, its peak had been given another name by the poetic and reverent people of Tibet. They call it Chomolungma – Goddess Mother of the World.  Described as “the roof of the world” or “the spot closest to the sky”, on a sunny day, it can be seen from points at least 300 kilometers away. It reaches a height that is almost the flying altitude of commercial airplanes (30,000 feet). 

From the time the permission to approach and climb Mt. Everest was first granted in 1929, the desire to reach its summit captivated the spirit of many adventurous men. But many came back from their fruitless attempt empty-handed. And still, many of them were not able to come back at all. With great plume of snow and ice particles stretching for several miles, with cold and violent winds blowing up to 200 miles an hour, and with only a fraction of oxygen available, surmounting its top was thought to be beyond any human endurance. But on May 29, 1953,  British Edmund P. Hillary and  his Sherpa guide (a member of one of the Tibetan hill tribes that live in the high valleys around Mt. Everest), Tenzing Norkey, shocked and amazed the world when they defied these odds and became the first, in the history of mankind, to ever set foot on Mt. Everest’s proverbial peak. Planting the British flag on the earth’s virgin rooftop, Hillary dedicated his triumph to Elizabeth before she was crowned as the Queen of Great Britain. And so, the story goes. 

But even as we raised our booze glasses in the past several days to our very own valiant heroes who, like Hillary, have brought the country a national pride, we also know that we must never entirely pour out our Johnnie blues. 

This brings me, still, to another story. A brethren, insinuating to his father his desire to join freemasonry, asked the latter, who happened to be the worshipful master of his lodge at that time, how to be a mason. Instead of giving him clear-cut and detailed instructions, his father only said: look at the mountain, son. 

I do not know if I have fully deciphered the puzzle of the father’s reply. But on the days that followed, including those times after I was already raised as a master mason, I could only surmise that really, a traveler’s trek to the pinnacle starts from the lowest point; or, that a man’s mundane exploits are humbly obscured by the mountain’s sublime magnitude; or, better yet, that masonry – the craft of building the temple of the human spirit – is not merely a toilsome but a constant and a never-ending journey. 

In The Craft and Its Symbols, Allen E. Roberts reminded all masons that: 

There must be constant examination of one’s self. No man should ever be content to stand still. He must never believe that he has reached the pinnacle of goodness, knowledge, or intelligence. He must never be satisfied with his accomplishments. He must continue to sacrifice his pleasures, his time, his material possessions for the betterment of his fellowmen. 

Indeed, any given day is a pursuit of goodness, knowledge, and intelligence. In our quest for further light, each day becomes a mountain to climb. From a cowan’s asinine perspective, this goal is totally worthless, if not patently stupid. Why do we bother to take a penny for a gold; why do we settle an age of lust and glory for a life of service and charity; and, why do we have to leave the comforts of our homes just to beat a risky slope. Yet, as templars of the human soul, our crusade towards such light simply must continue. Not only because beyond the city’s smog rests the most radiant sun. Not only because above the storm-troubled lowland lies the most sparkling beam. Every day, we gather our working tools as our rope, stirrup, and piton. Every day, we search for the truth. And Mt. Everest explains it all. 

Because it is there.