We don’t have an eight-foot Christmas tree inside the house or in the porch of our humble home in Gulod. But, in our small garden, we have a live Christmas tree that is almost as tall as the electric posts on the road.
At night, our live Christmas tree, a two-decade-old narra tree, glows in the dark. Its branches are festooned with 7,000 little bluish-white LED lights that sparkle like tiny fairies in a forest of green leaves.
Each strand of Christmas lights hanging from the narra branches gently dances to the cheer of the wind. They sway in different directions making it appear like they are Lilliputian ballerinas doing their arabesques in mid-air. These white lights prompt the jeepneys and cars plying the route to slow down at the sight of the tree. The brightly-lit tree also brings instant curiosity to passersby who stop to have a selfie — with the tree!
But no one can be any happier than my 70-year-old mother Candida, who has never stopped ogling the bluish-white lights every night since she spearheaded the Christmas tree lighting two weeks ago. When darkness envelops her surroundings, she gets excited. She sits on my late father’s rocking chair in our terrace, switches the power breaker, and watches the Christmas lights wink at her. Her face lights up, her spirit floats, her joy meanders, infecting those around her. The reflections of the 7,000 white lights are mirrored in her eyes. Her happiness is uncontainable, magnified 7,000 times.
For my mother, the lights on the tree are symbolic of her dreams and aspirations — not anymore for herself but for her loved ones. As she sits before the blinking lights, she counts her blessings. She celebrates her miracles. Yes, her miracles, big and small.
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My mother never forgets her miracles. And the best part is, she never wastes them.
Three Mondays ago, she told me as we both sat in the terrace to watch the fiesta of lights drooping from the tree, she fell to the ground very early in the morning as she was about to prepare breakfast. It was a sudden fall combatted by her quick reflexes to stand up, too. My youngest brother, the only family member who lives with her every day, had gone for school. Neneng, our kasambahay who lives nearby, asked prior permission from her that she would be late for work that day.
After getting up, she slowly walked to the sofa, practiced deep breathing as she finished her coffee. A few minutes after, she walked to the shower room and took a bath. She made sure she was mabango.
She wore her favorite duster. Puffed Johnson’s baby powder on her face, making sure that the bridge of her nose was powdered, too. She applied her red lipstick. She was ready to go — to the hospital. Her will was so strong she was meaning to take the jeep to bring herself to the hospital. She did not bother waking up my eldest brother who lives in the compound.
Later on, she got her groove back and decided to go back to sleep instead of rushing herself to the hospital. She told herself: “Anu’t-ano man, handa na ako. Naligo na ako, mabango na ako, malinis na ang katawan ko. Kung katapusan ko na, mamamatay akong mabango. Pero hinde, nagdasal pa rin akong magising (Whatever happens to me today, I am ready. I already took a bath; I smell good; I cleaned my body. But no, I still prayed that I would wake up).”
And she woke up to the knocking of Neneng. Later that day, she asked Neneng to accompany her for her check-up. Her diabetic doctor suspects her sugar level had something to do with her fall. My mother all the more manages her ailment now.
She told me in Tagalog: “When I fell to the ground that early morning, I thought it was my end. I felt the earth, I even smelled it, and somehow I knew that day, I would be part of it.”
“Noong bumagsak ako, milagrong hindi napabagok ang ulo ko sa lupa. May tipak ng bato malapit sa pinagbagsakan ko. Milagro ring bigla akong nakatayo (When I fell, it was a miracle that I did not hit my head to the ground. There was a big slab of rock near the spot where I fell. It was also a miracle that I was able to stand up right away after I fell),” she recounted as she continued to gaze at the little light bulbs that captivate her.
So now, she remembers her miracles and celebrates them. She remembers her fall and how she survived it. She will never waste this miracle by making sure she attends to her doctor’s check-up regularly.
In the blinking of the bluish-white lights in our live Christmas tree at home, my mother sees 7,000 happy moments of the past, present and the days to come.
For me, the bluish-white bulbs remind me of my love for her — pure and illuminating. If I would live 7,000 more lives in the future, I would still choose her to be my mother 7,000 times, too. After all, she is the greatest miracle I have received from God. She’s one miracle who, by simply thinking of her sacrifices for me and my four other siblings, inspires me to do better in life every single day. She is the light who reminds me to always shine the best way I can and to remain grounded all the time. The thought of her, because we live far away from each other from Monday to Friday, puts me to sleep when the world around me spins uncontrollably. In her arms I am safe, insulated from the worries of the world.
As for my mother, the 7,000 little bulbs remind her of her miracles the she needs to celebrate every day. Her heart knows she would not waste her miracles.
And no one should.
(For your new beginnings, e-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I’m also on Twitter
@bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)