Lately, I’ve been thinking of Paul Walker and his untimely death. I am not a Walker fan and I did wonder if my real grief was proof that I, indeed, have incurable, impossible colonial mentality. After all, I have not watched a single movie of his and I did not follow his career. And, it must be admitted, he appeared in no fantasy of mine. And yet, there I was, devastated.
Devastated is a good word for the way I feel these days. How can any one of us not feel devastated? Yes, the italicized feel is necessary. I feel like I’m walking around with an open wound. How we have suffered as Filipinos, battered and bruised.
The day after Yolanda hit, in the first few pristine hours only a storm can give (in the way it clears the air of its filmy dust), the children and I inspected the garden to make an accounting of what was destroyed. It seemed such an innocent act then — the pointing out of how the tiny flowers were sometimes stronger than the calamansi. How we marveled at the way the santan remained unscathed. How great our relief when the damage seemed small and tiny. It would be a few hours later, when news of the real damage arrived, that we realized those first few hours were a false gift — and yet still a gift…but this is confusing, the way the words are laid out on the page.
How confusing it all truly is. There isn’t enough distance or hindsight to produce wisdom. All there is now is this strange feeling that I am indeed Alice in Wonderland. How strange is this combination of disparate things in life. How terrible is the tragedy, but how great the stories of faith and love. How immeasurable the loss and damage but how gratifying the usefulness of the body at the relief center. How impossible is the task of rebuilding in the mind but how massive the capacity of the heart to give. How is it possible that Easter and Advent can be around at the same time? How could anyone live for long in such epic proportions? It was just as Dickens said: “the worst of times, the best of times.â€
How logical it all seemed — the mechanism of disaster relief so ingrained in our persons that we know what protocol to follow. The children automatically sorted through clothes and toys. A part of me railed against this, the automaticity. Had we still not provided basic services? I wanted to scream. Why were we finding these photos of bayanihan so touching? Like the literature teacher that I am, I could see both sides of the picture all the time. Yes, children being placed in pails to cross water are cute, but it is also horribly wrong.
The grayness that ensued could be seen in the seesawing of anger and despair and hope and optimism online. There were calls to desist from being negastars and there were calls from others to keep sharp and critical. I could only find relief in pouring rice, and in praying over calluses in my hands. This much, this much, I could do.
It was in the midst of bagging rice (four tabos worth for every plastic bag) that I began to truly meditate and pray. High school boys had come upon a system of carrying the sacks of rice, opening, and pouring and the rain of rice began to sound like a song. My son would look at the supply and ooh and aah at how impossible it seemed to be able to pack them all away. That’s how much rice was given! The women around the rice had a running commentary on grains, commanding when the rice had to be mixed better so that everyone had a chance to get the good rice. How moved I was by that special attention to detail. Using long rakes, the boys would move the grains of rice so that they could come closer to us and the rice would dance and land on our clothes. They’d apologize and I’d always say: grace, grace, do it again! Let the rice dance!
In my meditation, I could see this circle of ours from above, and could identify the circles of grace. Outside the scoopers were the baggers, and outside the baggers were the carriers. I marveled at how the simple design could yield the fastest results. You could feel the energy in the room — the urgency in ensuring that relief could come right away. And I kept thinking this is body work, this is body work. We must keep the bodies alive. Days later I would read that all that frenzied packing would feed 400,000 or so families…for three days. Nothing seemed more gargantuan a task than that. So many, many bodies.
I always think in metaphors, the trap of my academic life, and those first few days, attempting to feel as if life were normal, I kept thinking of the story of the multiplication of loaves. I could see the story in my mind’s eye. A multitude of people was following Christ in his ministry. One of the disciples suggests to Jesus that he send them away already, as it would take time for the followers to go back to their homes. Jesus asks: what do you have there? We only have four loaves and fish. Jesus takes it and blesses the meager supply and they begin to distribute the food. The story is very clear that all were fed with satisfaction and, in fact, there was an oversupply.
Scooping rice, watching a few grains fall over the plastic bag, thinking, do not waste, do not waste, I wondered and yet somehow also knew (again the juxtaposition of disparate things, as if lines that normally separate are all rendered useless) that everyone had that frenetic refrain thundering in their ears. Was this perhaps the same emotion on that mountain with Christ? Do not waste, do not waste. Take only what is necessary. Always leave some for others. Be aware of what your neighbor may need. Want less. Want less. Have one rather than two. Perhaps the miracle was not so much that Christ had literally multiplied the loaves. God cannot make a miracle in the sense that all that he does is by nature a miracle as he is God. Perhaps real miracles are made by men and women. Perhaps there was more than enough because the real multiplication was the multiplication of humans’ generosity. It seemed a staggering, staggering thought. A thought or an idea that could be a reality, a practice, a habit that would not have happened without the loss of demarcating lines.
Perhaps I could feel for Paul (yes, we are close now) because I was in a particular place where my heart was raw enough to feel the pain of hundreds. If I could feel the pain in Visayas of people unknown to me, it could stretch even further and feel for Paul. Why not? Why should it be strange that his death moves me?
I bump once again into an even greater irony, as I write this, having experienced the death of two more people close to me. Why should death surprise us? It is the most natural thing in the world. And yet it yanks us from all things familiar, reminds us that we all have a final destination, unknown. We are just bodies on some level. But only on some level.
I grapple for a way to end this piece with some kind of happy thought, trying to find the words to, in the words of my childhood, “make it all go away.†But I am no longer a child and can no longer speak like a child. I look to the heavens and ask for nothing, not even kindness or mercy. Wasn’t it Donne who said: “But trepidation of the spheres, though greater far, is innocent.†The universe moves with no intent, with no knowledge of what it causes. It would be useless to rail against the innocence of gravity. What is the point of all of it then? Perhaps, only this: to live well, by whatever it is that you use to measure.