JOURNEY THROUGH THE COLORS OF LIFE

                The bell on the century old belfry tolled. My family dressed up to hear the first mass at San Juan de Dios Church, San Rafael, Bulacan. The historic church housed less than a thousand corpses who fought for freedom from the Spaniards on the great battle of San Rafael headed by Gen. Anacleto Enriquez on November 30, 1896.

                A spark in the shadow, a ray of hope beamed from the east that early Sunday morning. After the mass, I found myself succumbed by fresh air, riding on my rust-blemished-red-colored bicycle on the path I usually take. A twenty-five-kilometer-oval road from my house to the fields through the bank of the river. The presence of the road leading to Northwood Golf and Country Club made me easier pedaling my bike.

A farmer, his wife, and children lived so simple in a hut they called home. The children in their tender age were helping their parents harvesting palay. They chose to work for survival instead of living their right to play. They used to go to school but irregularly. They seldom complained. They said they enjoyed working and meeting with the family’s need. How refreshing to see the golden palay they were harvesting, the fruit of the land they toiled.

The serenity of the fields on the other side, and the leaves of wild grass moisten by dew on a tranquil meadow overlooking the old mango trees added the sight of a cool morning breeze.

As early morning sunshine tried to burn away the morning mist, joggers and cyclists were in their haste burning away their weeklong stress and anxieties, exchanging light ideas uncommon from their day-to-day burdens.

The rough road after the golf course led me to a rocky path. Legend had it to say that Bernardo Carpio, a giant who was so strong he could move two mountains apart left a mark of his foot on one of the big stones. You could imagine how big he was by this footprint that his next step was about a couple of town away.

I chanced upon looking I thought a gray birdlike on the wayside. Gladly I stopped and when I was about to touch that thing, it opened up its eyes. It was what we called “kuwagong parang”, a native owl who happened to take a nap and flew away when it heard me coming.

                It was a short ride towards the bank of San Rafael-Bustos dam. I saw a “kingfisher” stood disguising among the flowers of water lily waiting for its prey. I stopped and sat below a tree and heard the “maria cafra” sang while hopping from branch to branch, to the wild grass, to the nearby wildflowers and back. This was my favorite place, the lone acacia tree, where I used to write my essays and poems. I wasn’t able to do one because of the hustle-and-bustle surroundings.

The water on the river gradually subsided. Fishermen alighted from its bank with their nets, bait and other fishing materials. I enjoyed watching a boy about ten years of age paddled the boat while his father continuously throwing his fishing net.

Carabaos and cows crossed the river to find green pastures. Children were bathing and playing. Couples shared their wash loads, vacationers dipped their feet on cold water, everybody was in the light mood they feasted enjoying the gift of the river.

                In no distance was the other side of the place.  Off with my bicycle I walked through the muddy part of my track.  The deafening sound of bulldozers, loaders and trucks came my way.  Quarrying was one source of income here. This I wish should be regulated for it lessens the beauty of the river.  As I went on, there I saw a yellow garbage truck. About eight persons ran with their tools to open each sack of garbage from the truck. Happy were those old ones who can scare away the children scavengers. I happened to talk to one of them and said it was the only work she can earn for a living.  I told her this work was better than begging, anyway.

                Farmers, fishermen, quarrymen, duck raisers, couples washing their clothes, vacationers, men pasturing cows and carabaos, scavengers, firewood-cutters, different people, different faces, different colours of life I witnessed on a day’s journey. The happiness, the sadness, the lighter and the gray side of life were present on that very day. The night began to fall, heading for their homes, their fingers crossed, hoping for another morning to come, believing tomorrow, the journey of life colours continues.