Taming This Tyke's Voice Since 2007

growing

My Genesis

~

I delight watching things from their outset,

I am soothe to see the genesis of things.

They remind me of the child, the curious eyes

Ever sparkling within.

 

I see beauty in simpleness of anything even at their lowly outset,

For they possess the genuine truth of precious purity.

They remind me of my beginnings

Like the water glorybinds(kangkong) growing wild in the marshes,

They bring back memories of the backyards

Of some houses I lived as a child.

Water glorybind, river spinach,swamp cabbage, whatever name you call it, for me its "Tangkong" Pencil, pen and ink on paper by Jeques B. Jamora, 2010

In some quiet afternoons during my untamed moments,

I would sit motionless in a corner facing the swamp in our backyard

Listening to the soothing sounds, the slightest of movements

In the still water at one o’clock

When the world in my young mind

Takes a nap with my mother on her siesta.

I would sneak out of the house through the backdoor

To celebrate the joy of my earliest  found solitude

In the company of nature ~

 

Befriending the dragonflies hovering over my head,

The birds nestling in the reeds,

The snails petiently taking thier journeys from one rock to the next,

While my mind quietly travels to the unknown future

Interrupted by occasional sightings of the gourami

That stir the still water creating tiny ripples on the surface.

 

But the highlight of the afternoon is the rare sighting of the mudfish(dalag)

Making that splash and swashing sound and wild movements

In the dense growth of the water glorybinds as it swims back to the bushes of reeds,

Where the water of the marshes is knee deep and the herons(tagak) nest.

That magical moment of brief beautiful chaos tickles purest joy of childhood madness.

 

Cherished memories from my genesis ~

My earliest form of entertainment: my humble version of television,

Or a theatre; watching a movie or a concert ~ my idea of a grand show

Happening in our backyard in an atypic stage, in a silverscreen of water glorybinds

Where the dragonflies, the frogs, the birds, the gourami, the snails, the herons, the mudfish

Are the stars, and I, their sole audience.

 

The show ends with the voice of my mother calling my name at four o’clock.

That’s when the curtains drop,

The world wakes up,

As I walk back home to the door of my genesis.

"The Dragonfly and I"

 

 —

Jeques, 2010. From his “Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection.

 

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Tamed

 

A free-spirited cub

Laid on the holy slab

Donned by my mother white.

A willing sacrificial lamb

To get the approval of my father.

 

He offered me to the altar

In fulfillment of a promise

To pay his dues,

And left me waif outside a shut door

Of a dome I din’t belong.

He dropped me off the road, unknown,

To a journey never understood.

A life he ordered me to live,

Without a map to follow

And lost myself along the way.

 

I strayed into the wilderness,

Cruel and unforgiving,

Like a vulnerable cub

Bullied by laughing hyenas.

There was no armor

To shield me in the battles

I didn’t expect exist

Inside the dome

That I thought was holy.

I was an easy prey

To predators in school

And the obloquies of my father

When I returned home.

 

The life raft

I thought I could cling on

In times of storm

Pushed me away,

Drifting, hitting rocks in the shores

That would not welcome me.

I sustained wounds

That bleed inside me

Nobody understood

I leaked many years in silence

To healing ~

Nursed the white cub inside me

And made myself whole again.

 

I was a reject at 13,

A loser at such a young age.

A picture of defeat,

Expelled from the dome

That many thought

Would determine my future.

The once free-spirited cub

Suddenly became a pariah

Retiring to his digged burrows

Leaving behind no egress,

Descending farther

To a different kind of confinement.

 

I tried to mimic the hyenas

For awhile to earn my protection

From the harsh world.

A symbiosis I welcomed

Like the anemone

To a clownfish taking shelter

In its stinging tentacled folds

While I build my backbone,

Training my fins to swim

And find the lost me again.

nagpangita ko nemo  25 ginpangita man ko nemo

 It was a moment

I’m not proud about,  and remorseful.

I feel for the souls I stung with words,

For who could understand them better

But me who once was a dartboard

Of ridicules of the hyenas.

I learned to sound like their laughter

But never become them,

For caged within me was a crying cub

I  heard clearly

When I chose solitude.

 

I didn’t belong to any herd

And refused to take their colors,

For I chose to become a new breed 

That grows its claws

Not to harm, but to protect.

To weave words not to distroy,

But to re-build the broken spirits. 

 

It took me years

To understand my purpose,

Like the clownfish to survive

Free of my imaginary anemone.

It took me awhile to recognize

The true sound of my laughter

Muted by the loud hyenas.

In solitude I redeemed my voice

I once lost in my desperate attempts

To seek the approval of my father.

 

I swam the ocean, arrived in the shore 

That my creator intended me to be

And found the white cub still clad in white

His mother once donned him,

But now grown

And tamed.

 tamed original

—–

HAVE A WONDERFUL YEAR OF THE WHITE TIGER, EVERYONE!

I wish you well.

 

~ Jeques 

 

 

 


Breaking Grounds

 

Here I am pursuing

In endless circles

On and on

Wandering, wondering

Where’s this circular course

Taking me,

Where’s this ring going?

 

Like the fan blades

In the dining,

Grating, squeaking in the ceiling

Racing overhead.

 

Like the propellel

At the boat’s rear

My mother once showed me

Stuck in my memory

Of things turning

Around an axis

Aimless.

 

I did my laundry

The other day,

And lost myself

With the motion

Of my clothes spinning,

So did my head

Juggling with thoughts

As the Wheels,

And mills,

The clock running

Round in circles

But really,

Where is it going

When it ends where it begins?

 

I hear an alarm

Of high pitched signal,

My laundy is done.

The machine pukes

Fragrant vomitus:

My clothes smelling the scents

Of spring and renewal

Like my mind

Finding new meanings:

 

The fan in the dining

Brings me air

Of homey comfort

Makes beef stew rice topping

Tastes like what my mother

Used to feed me

From my distant memory of home.

 

The propellel at its rear

“Mamang” directed my young mind

In my first boat ride

Brought me faraway,

Closer to my destination.

 

As the Wheels,

And mills

The clock running

Round in circles

And me pursuing

This ring course,

Breaking grounds

Widening scope

For reasons

 

That some day,

 

My nephews and nieces

Would grow up

To understand.

 

* “Mamang” a name we call our mothers in some regions in the Philippines.

(Jeques, 2009. From his A Traveler’s Soliloquies poetry collection)

 

 


Dreams Alight

The child had a vision he will arrive at this moment. He saw everything before all these happened, the images was clear in his reveries, the picture was complete in his imagination. His mind’s feet had walked this path, his mind’s senses had lived this moment. It was not easy for his young mind to understand the vision, It was not easy for his young heart to contain what he saw. All he knew then was to dream. There was a map engraved in his heart, the mind followed the direction that took him to the present.
 
The child grew up to be that man in his vision. Standing still, he look back, following the tracks of his journey back  to the child who told him many stories they weaved together: 
 
The child dreamt.
 
Him, lives. 

 

 I sketch a landscape in my mind’s canvas;
Tracing the figures using my child’s eyes.
Paint it with colors just the way it was.
I feel brimful of joy that my soul cries.

 "Rendezvous" series #1 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series #4 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

"Rendezvous series #2 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009   "Rendezvous" series # 3 oil on canvas 20x20, by Jeques B. Jamora

(“Rendezvous” series 1 – 4 oil on canvas 20×20, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009)

There’s the refulgent streams of the river
Flowing beneath the bamboos’ lush bowers.
Their drowsy whistles I still remember.
When winds blow through the leaves and the boulders.

 

There’s the rock that rests on the reef of stones,
Where the tyke sits when he would go fishing.
Silence croons him with nature’s pristine tones.
When a fish pulls his bait, his heart’s dashing.

 

There’s the lily that cupped the morn’s dewdrops.
Frogs stay motionless on their giant leaves,
Until an insect strays by their tongue traps.
Their prying eyes ever alert like thieves.

 

 There’s the damselfly that hovers above
My head and the tip of my fishing rod.
A scene I always remember with love,
It never fails to cheer me when I’m sad.

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

"Dreams Alight" study oil on canvas 30x30, by Jeques B. Jamora

 

 There’s the sun peeping through the verdant trees;
Casting their shimmering hued reflections
On the running waters like pageantries.
Moving me to profound contemplations.

 

Ah, idyllic landscape, ethereal arts.
We always have that child’s nook in our hearts.

(“Childhood Nook, Revisited!” From the poetry collection by: Jesus B. Jamora, 04/21/06)

  "Dreams Alight" oil on canvas 36x36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

“Dreams Alight” oil on canvas 36X36, by Jeques B. Jamora, 2009

I am now  beginning to slowly understand the child’s vision that used to scare me. I am now starting to polish the rough edges of the images and lay the pictures on the frames as I translate the vision to become my breathing, throbbing realities.

I awake to the present to write on the pages the stories that the child once told me. I alight to this moment where his dreams had landed long before I arrived.

I used to think I was chasing my dreams, I now understand I did not. Like  the damselflies that alight on my palm as a kid, dreams, too, alight when I learned to open myself and keep my heart still.

 

~ Jeques


My Contribution To The Future

My eldest sister, Maritez, called me the previous day asking me to write a valedictory address for her second child, Gigi, who will be graduating Valedictorian from grade school. It was such a great moment for me. Suddenly I was a proud uncle, I believe she feels double the joy and pride I felt. Hearing my nephews’ and nieces’ accomplishments and achievements are always inspiring. It feels like I’m showered with so much positive energies, and I feel a certain feeling of high every time.

And then, I begun the composition of the speech in my mind that brought me back to the sweet memories of my early education from elementary days. It all became fresh again. All the elements came back, and I was there when it happened and the speech I wrote should have been the message I told my classmates back then, only I was not the valedictorian.

 

My Education: My Contribution To The Future

boracay-357

A Valedictory Address : Angelie Jamora Escrupulo

 

I arrive today to this moment, standing facing a new frontier. Before this moment pass me by, let me take each detail, each piece of memories, each body of thoughts, the knowledge, the wisdom, the important life’s lessons, all the gifts and blessings that this moment is giving me so I could take them with me to my travel to the future. 

My dear classmates, are you taking the memories like me?

Do you still remember the first time we stepped to the grounds of this school, the Elementary School we will forever carry wherever the future takes us from here. Did you keep our shared laughters? The laughter forever sweet in our memories. Engrave them in your hearts, they are the laughter so pure we could always go back whenever we face the bitter taste of life that we are sure to stumble upon as we face the consequences of growing. Value the friendship we built here, they hold the purest elements of camaraderie and partnership that we need as we befriend the world.

Feel the comfort of the chairs where you are seated now, the floor where your feet are rested, breath the air, the scent of our dear school ~ 

If you could hold the hands of our classmates beside you, feel that gentle yet strong grip .  .  .  . 

(Note : Invite everybody at this point to hold hands and please allow some time for seatmates to enjoy the moment)

The memory of their grips will remind us that we will be forever safe wherever our futures would take us when we leave this grounds and get out of the gates of this campus that will forever hold the moments when we took our baby steps taking in the knowledge that helped form the young muscles of our minds so we would be ready.

Listen to the sounds of triumph that we all hear at this moment.

Capture all the elements that we could possibly get from here –

The scents of our notepads and erasers, of our bags, of the pencils and scented pens, when we were just learning to form the first letters, write our first words and draw our first flowers.

The many rains that showered us in our way to school and back home, and its sound as the rainfalls hit the roof of our classroom when we were just learning to count and pronounce our ABC’s

The sunlights that lit our faces, the sunshine that’s forever bright in our memories, and will forever remind us of the first exercise and dance steps we learn from our PE.

The feel of our desk, the colors of our classroom, the taste of the hundred snacks we shared.

Memorize the faces that helped pave the way for us to arrive to this victory, that made our first triumphs possible :

Our parents ~ God’s angels that built our homes and sent us to school.

Our families that supported us so we learn the basic lessons of how it is to stand and to take steps in our first walk in our journeys with life.

Our classmates and friends, who made us feel for the first time that we belong outside our homes in the safety of their company.

Our dear Teachers, our second parents in school, who fed us with all the knowledge every step of the way, from kindergarten, to grade one, to grade six, and now that this journey is about to end, as we are about to take a leap to next stage. We fear not because we are ready, they prepared us for this, to face the many battles we will face as we step to the roads to our future. Remember their voices that equipped us with the weapons and armour, these are the voices that will remind us of the power of knowledge they ingrained our young minds.  

Remember our dear Principal, who helped us build our backbones in education, wherever the paths of the academe will take us, we would always trace back our beginnings from here. We should always be grateful to our principal for designing and sending us the most basic and complete, yet non-complicated map so we would not get lost no matter how blurry the visibilities of the terrains  in the forest, and deserts, and jungles, and ocean, and prairies, and mountains, and skyscrapers of the cities of whatever profession that we will fly in our pursuits for knowledge to make the difference and make our corners of the world a better place to live.

We hold in our minds that map and if we uphold what we have learned, we will be sure to reach our destinations safe.

Remember that our parents, our teachers, our principal are once like you and I, too. They have arrived to where they are right now, and we their children, their pupils and the knowledge that they nourished us are their contribution to the the future they only thought about when they were our age dreaming about this very moment where we are now. Our triumphs and our achievements are their victories, too.

Let us thank them with our prayers, may our little voices would reach God’s ears to bless them. Let us pay them tribute and pass on their kindness by becoming the best versions of ourselves that they wanted all of us to become, nothing less. Wherever our journeys will take us, we will always trace our roots in this grounds, we are always anchored in their arms, in their hearts. Like kites we are safe in our flights because our strings are in the safety of their caring hands.

Let me read to you a poem written by my uncle, let this poem be my message to everybody who once were children, too. 

Child Once, Too

Let the child run free, uphills or down plains

Like a gazelle that gallops in prairies.

Let him swim in lakes, bathe in rains

And coquette like the mystical fairies.

Censor him not for he is free from stains

Trust not the filthy mind of the gentries.

Free the child from the restraining chains

And from the customs’ narrow boundaries.

Let him be for his generations’ gains ~

Allow the children to weave their stories.

 

And now, as we celebrate this milestones in our young life, let us celebrate this moment with grateful hearts. Our graduation today is our contribution to the future – from the seeds that we are now, will spring bright citizens of our country that will help sustain and make the difference. We will be taking different highways from this little road, we will explore the wide skies from this runway as we take off, we will reach distant shores as we leave this harbour of our elementary school as proud graduates ready to help build the future for the generations to come. 

For our friends, until we meet again.

For our guest of honor, thank you for the inspiration, may our little victory will serve as an inspiration for you, too, that you could take and share the next time you are invited to speak for a graduation ceremony.

For our Teachers and Principal, this is not goodbye, this is just asking your permission, and for your blessings as we take off – please wish us well.

For our parents and family, we offer to you our first accomplishment of the many triumphs and honors we will bring home from now.

For my dear classmates, let us open our minds and our hearts for growth. The future promises unlimited possibilities that are in our hands and are for us to seize and to hold. Always take the bright routes to the future, when the roads are seem dark in some days, take refuge and find the guidance of the little lamp post of the memories from this moment and we will never  get lost.

Let us thank God for this moment. Let us thank Him for all the people, the extension of His love, His angels that He sent to make sure all that we have now and our future will happen. It is written.

And when we reach our destinations please let us not forget to look back and send signals to our dear school, that we have reached our destinations and that we have arrived.

 


“1sts” (#3 Plant)

Some live to hunt; I came to life to plant.”

~

The first living thing I planted is a stem cutting from a “Camote”(sweet potato). My mother uses the shoot tips for her fish stew. I observe her while she’s preparing the food, when my child-like curiosity made me ask her how the vegetable is grown?

“The cuttings,” she replied.

What happened next, she picked and handed me one cutting from the waste box and there I was, 3 years old, planting my first farm of potato in a pot. I would visit my new potted friend each morning patiently waiting for any sign of life from the stem partly covered with earth. I can still recall my surprise one morning finding some changes during my regular check. It was magical to my young eyes seeing tiny greens sprouting from a seem lifeless piece of stem. The sprig grew long with the passing of day, as new leaves replaced the pared parts my mother used for her stew.

The progress are exciting source of story I told my sibling everytime they arrive from school. I have learned from them later on that the  steamed“camote” (sweet potato) we ate for snacks are “over-grown” roots of the plant. My curiousity of the leaves waned as I become more interested with the roots, observing the soil closely, digging its roots to check for any growth thinking of the sweetest potato produce from my potted farm.

My childhood curiosity killed my first plant – that same curiosity that once breath life to it. I woke up one morning finding my wilted plant, and no amount of water can bring it back to life – or perhaps I over watered it – and for the first time, I grieved for the first living thing I lost.

“You have touched its roots prematurely,” my mother told me. I know better about plants since then..

This is where my love for plants started. The garden brings back beautiful childhood memories. The passion remains in me to these days, the roots has grown deep in me. I have to mention that at thirteen, I planted my first bonsai tree, I gave it a name: Ethan. I am 35 now, which makes Ethan my 22-year old potted friend. My story with Ethan is still on going. It is crazy, but I miss my plants back home.

~

Shepherds Of Life (Senryu)

Hunters live to take

While planters exist to give

They’re shepherds of life.

~Ethan, my 22-year-old bonsai

Ethan, my 22-year-old bonsai. I’ll write about him next time.

 


Déjà vu: Seeing My Reflections In Their Eyes

reflections4

I walk the same roads I trod at eighteen,
I stand on my hometown’s pavement again.

.

In life’s transits we’re merely passengers.

As I glance upon the streaming strangers,

I feel a certain familiarity

There’s strange kinship in the locality.

.

I take the same spot I took at sixteen,

I’m seated at the same station again.

.

I can’t move forward with my travels blind,

Flash backs of my past trips rush in my mind.

There are story-filled structures in the streets

We are commuters to life’s immense fleets.

.

I breath the same air I breathed at thirteen.

I’m home to the place of my youth again.

reflections3
 

‘Tis a breath of fresh air ro be around kids, especially around my nephews and nieces. I enjoyed their company during my recent home-coming. Watching them is like seeing fragments of my reflections strewn in their eyes. I see myself in them, I see strangely familiar sounds in their voices and laughter, being with them is experiencing Déjà vu as I watch their every moves. A piece of me is somewhere in their genes, each of them are my little version ~ we are connected in that way.

It is fun to see familiar moves and be reminded of how I used to be when I was their age. My eldest niece is 18 and the youngest is 5. I cherish their company, it was like watching myself from age 5 to 18, like when we were together during mealtimes, or during games, in our chats, telling stories, laughing, roaming around, seeing things or even just in simple exchanges of smiles.

reflections2
— 
They are one of the reasons for my coming to America. I want to open for them a better option in life, new possibilities, new frontiers. I would like to be an inspiration. I would like to plant in their hearts seeds of dreams. I would like to nourish what I have planted. For remnants of my dreams are ingrained somewhere in their genes, deep in their hearts. 
And as I’ve mentioned in one of my previous posts: I would like to become somebody for them, that person I wish I had(but never had) when I was growing up. Please click link: https://jeques.wordpress.com/2007/12/14/becoming-somebody-i-wish-i-had/

reflections 

Child Once, Too

By: Jesus B. Jamora, 2005

~

Let the child run free, uphills or down plains

Like a gazelle that gallops in prairies.

Let him swim in lakes, bathe in rains

And coquette like the mystical fairies.

Censor him not for he is free from stains

Trust not the filthy mind of the gentries.

Free the child from the restraining chains

And from the customs’ narrow bounderies.

Let him be for his generations’ gains ~

Allow the children to weave their stories.

For Writers Island: “Déjà vu”

~


Second Chance, From The Seed’s Perspective

Second Chance. Who could understand it better but I, the seed. Because ’tis when I am almost destroyed that I am about to grow. Here is how second chance is seen from where I lay, here’s how second chance means from the seed’s perspective.

I’m trapped down here in the dark walls of the earth.

Above me are thickened layers of hardened dirt.

I was once up there, I’m a child of the light.

The sun smiles, winds’ kisses, rains used to bath me.

But now I’m stuck, darkness enfolds me.

I’m thriving, dreaming. I am alone completely.

‘Tis my ineffable hope that’s left of me.

Would there’ll be someone up there to rescue me?

My thoughts of the light, my blissfull days brace me.

I’d transcend these adversities.

There’s a wonderful world for me to see.

I will escape the sadness that enslaves me.

I’ll live and not die, the morning awaits me.

I’ll gather my strength, my brave heart will free me.

I’m a seed destined to be a seasoned tree.

My courage is ingrained, ’tis deep within me.

(From my “Seed” series poem ~ Ingrained: Child Of The Light)

seed1

Seed #1, pen and ink on paper. By:Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98

seed2

seed #2, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98

seed3

seed #3, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98

seed4

seed #4, pen and ink on paper. By: Jeques B. Jamora, Nov. ’98

I wish to grow into a lovely tree,

Where people could sit under my cool shade

And rest their weary minds, hearts and bodies.

.

I wish to grow into a healthy tree,

So I could bear fruits and feed people

I would nourish the hungry humanity.

.

I wish to grow into a sturdy tree;

People would build houses from my branches.

A shelter, a home, I would be glad to be.

.

I wish to grow into a seasoned tree,

So bridges and light posts will rise from me.

I would be your road, I would light your way.

.

But for now, I’m a seed. Don’t look down at me.

I maybe small, but the morn will change me.

I’m full of dreams, and life ahead of me.

.

I wish to grow into a mother tree.

Thousands of seeds would come alive from me.

Seeds metamorphosed to homes of love.

.

I will be your shelter, eternally.

(From my “Seed” series poem – “The Seed’s Wishes”)

For every spring time is another chance and the sunlight that shower us with kisses in the morning are constant reminders that there is a second chance ~ we just need to open our cores and let the sunshine in, and accept the bounty of the gifts of life.

.


Pending Life

Love. It makes me want to rise every day and begin again. But this is not the kind of love that you would instantly think about, I feel lousy in that area. My love for life is what I’m saying. Each day as I arise – though it could be hard sometimes that I have to drag my body from bed being tired coming from work – I would remind myself that I have a pending life to live and by opening my eyes and welcoming a day of new beginning, would make me add one more brush stroke to the unfinished masterpiece called my life that I am painting as I live.

(I am a nurse working night shifts, and I’m talking about rising between 2-3 PM after some 5-6 hours sleep)

My creator gave me an empty canvas. He equipt me with a brush, but it is up to me to choose the paint colors to use as I progress painting my pending life ~ it is unfinished.

unfinished.jpg

“Unfinished” oil on canvas, 40×48(pending, nov, ’07 to date) By: Jeques B. Jamora

Life is an art school I attend, I love it! And the people, and places, and things; the seasons of life, each moment are my teachers. All these offer paint colors spread before me as I wake up every day. I just need to dip the tip of the brush from one of the tubes and do a single stroke one day at a time.

Often, like now, I move one step backwards to view my pending life-artwork. I’m beginning to like the image that’s slowly revealing from my everyday progress. I look back at my life, and the once dull colors I used to loathe in the past which I painted on my canvas are also needed hue for my masterpiece. Now I understand: shadows are essential and needed, too, to compliment the bright colors ~ to reveal the lights. I have no doubts now that bad times I went through and would overcome as I continue to move forward are necessary elements to for the completion of this pending life.

(Unfinished, to be continued)


Becoming Somebody I wished I Had

Journal

(Here’s a photograph of sample journal entries in my scrapbook I keep when I was still in the Philippines, when I had the time, and before I created “Jeques’s Web Nook.” Most of my pieces submitted here are from my notebooks/scrapbooks).

My niece wrote me a letter. She shared with me a piece she had written; I can’t share it here though, it’s too personal. But I would like to share with you the letter I sent her. I thought just now that this letter is also for me, for the teenager that I was that she is now. I wish I had somebody wrote me a letter like this, I wish I had somebody telling me I could write when I was younger, I wish somebody had encouraged me. But that’s too late to wish for now. I’ll just try to become my wishes to my nephews and my nieces and pass on what I have learned. And maybe, just maybe, when they are my age now, I hope they would remember that they had what I wished for that I never had. 

Queen,
 
It’s good to know that you’re writing. I don’t have to edit it. This is rather too personal for other people to touch it. You know when you allow other people to edit this, you would achieve refinement but you will lose the warmth and the purity of the feelings and the thoughts. I don’t want to do that. You don’t touch a seedling that has just sprouted, you might ruin it in the process. You understand what I mean?
 
My advise is for you to keep this. And be careful whom to show it. Some people will not understand and might call you a fool. Don’t be too excited showing people your personal stuff. Sometimes, instead of helping, their insensitive comments will just discourage and block you from writing. Which the least thing you need for now. Like anything else, writing needs time to grow, to evolve and in time for you to find your voice.
 
I hope you followed the advise I gave you and Meme to keep a journal/diary. You’ve seen how I do and keep my journals when I was still home. A journal entry could be a poem, a daily observation of your life and surroundings, or an article clip from a magazine you like, long narratives like this, letters, etc. What’s important is you record your thoughts regularly. Don’t limit yourself to the traditional “Dear Diary” kind of writing. There are wide posibilities to explore, to learn and to enjoy with the craft of writing if this is really your passion.
 
You wrote because you were/are inspired. Love brings out the best in us, and could move us to writing which I’m glad to note it had such a positive effect on you. But then again, don’t be too dependent on getting your inspiration just from love – its limiting. We fall in and out of love and this are extreme emotions. If we depend our writing on love alone we might as well fall in and out of writing, which is not good. Writing needs consistency. It is a passion, only few people has the gift. But it is also a craft that you need to learn, to hone, to mold, to practice, to polish, to do constantly and religeously no matter what. So you need to get out of the box. Write something outside your favorite topic: love, which most of the time people your age write. You could write about the morning, the time of day, the trees, the road, writing itself, school, seasons, favorites, nature, etc. There are multiutude of topics to choose and they all promise an exciting journey to writing.
 
But you also need to equipt yourself with the necessary tools to become an effective writer. This is where you should focus for now. Nobody advised me to do this when I was younger and this is the reason for me to miss a lot. READ, READ, READ. Reading is the best way you can equipt yourself with the necessary tools: Vocabulary, diction(choice of words), grammar, punctuations, style, etc. I have shown you how to do that, have a dictionary and a pencil beside you when you read, remember? And choose what you read, again, don’t limit yourself with romance books. I have a lot of good books left at home. They build my writing skills and I don’t see any reason why it can’t help and serve you the same purpose.
 
You are still in school, you have english subjects that teach you the basics. Take that opportunity, no matter how boring it can get sometimes, school still provides the basic tools to shape our minds. You will understand that when you’re out in the world finding your place under the skies.  You’re life is still non-complicated, you have a structured schedules to follow, so you could easily find time for writing. It’s different when you’re out in the world and you need to earn a living, I tell you. Where you are now should prepare you for this. If your passion for writing is not deeply rooted, you might lose it when faced with the challenges outside of school.
Like you, I also attended Nursing school back in college. It took me many years before I discovered my passion and before I was convinced that I could write. It is a journey. And it is for us to choose the road to take. 

 

 

Writing Makes Me Whole
By: Jesus B. Jamora, 2006

In the long stretch of my ficund mind’s strand,
I gather my muse’s scattered pieces.
I use the pen, like pencer in my hand,
To pick and write bits that form my thesis.

Fragment of thoughts, like seashells in the sand,
Meaningless words, worthless lines, homeless heart.
They are naught but seeds in a barren land.
They don’t even rhyme, but that’s where I start.

I write to capture these specks on paper,
For words slip my mind like grains to my palms.
‘Tis my existence that words decipher,
And from my illusions, I coin my psalms.

I’ve learned by writing: Life’s rife with chances.
There are new frontiers that I could explore.
I’ll move forth to arrive at distances.
I know a little so I wanted more.

But like the waves that return to the shores,
My odes, too, hope to touch your heart and soul.
I’m like a child in search for his treasures.
‘Tis the readers’ heart that will make me whole.

~
 
Our profession should not stop us from doing what we wanted to do. That’s why I’m happy to note that you’re writing. I am a late bloomer, and nobody in the family encouraged me when I was your age. But I found my way. It is rewarding for me to know that my writings has a positive effect in you, and hopefully to all my nephews and nieces. I wanted to be a person who would inspire you, somebody that I wish I had when I was struggling as a teenager. I have succeed if I am an inspiration, which means that the gift grows and multiplies and I’m effectively passing it on.
 
Now back to the writing piece you showed me. I advise that you edit it yourself for the reason that I’ve mentioned earlier. But not now. When you’re ready, when you think you have done your assignements I gave you, when you have the tools. Take your time. You already made the essential first step of writing it. Everything needs time to mellow, be patient. You will understand when you re-read this piece 2 or 3 years from now and you would know which part needs tuning up, which needs to be cut and what part trully speak your heart. Because writing should come from the heart and it is only you who could write what’s inside.
 
I hope I am home to personlly guide you, but I need to be away for the reason you know. I’m glad that you visited and you’re reading my works in my web nook. I hope it will continually inspire. I hope its a good reference for you, I hope I could be an effective teacher and uncle from the distance.
 
I wish you well.
 
Uncle Jeques