Do you want to know 'who you really are?'
Do you want to improve your relationships?
Do you want to develop socially, ethically, or spiritually?
This Program Could Be Your Solution!
What is 'Discovering Myself?'
'Discovering Myself' is a personal development program based on the Enneagram, comprising workshops and activities. The program shows how we can discover important things about ourselves by looking through the lens of personality. Personality is an important part of who we are but it is not the whole of us. Personality is the face we show to the world (and often to ourselves). By delving beneath the mask of personality we discover that we are much more. We have parts of ourselves that we can develop and use. We have shadow sides that we avoid.
Learning about yourself with the Enneagram will show you how we each have different world-views and ways of processing information. You will discover your talents, gifts, blind spots and traps. This information won't magically change you overnight, but it will point you in the right direction. It will give you opportunities and strategies to free yourself from what holds you back from making the most of yourself. It will help you understand others and improve those important relationships in your life. The program especially benefits couples and families.
Benefits of the Program
Coping with stress
Guiding career choices
Management of emotions
Improvement in relationships
Recognising talents and strengths
Sense of identity and place in the world
Better and more sincere communication
Understanding others and their behaviour
Greater self-awareness and self-knowledge
Recognition of weaknesses and blind spots
Personal, social and spiritual development
Increased self-acceptance and self-confidence
Lessens feelings of alienation and separateness
Path to freedom from poor attitudes and experiences
Reveals reasons for different world-views and priorities
Human potential is often limited by lack of self-awareness and self knowledge. 'Discovering Myself' provides keys to both. It shows how to understand yourself and find your way forward. It will help you to relate more positively to others and make sense of their different behaviours. Learning about yourself and others with the Enneagram provides opportunity for personal growth and liberation, accessible to all.
Friday, February 18, 2011
My home by:Dr. Jose Rizal
I had nine sisters and one brother.My father,a model of fathers,had given us an education in proportion to our modest means.By dint of frugality,he was able to build a stone house,to buy another,and to raise a small nipa hut in the midst of a grove we had,under the shede of banana and other trees.
There the delicious atis displayed its delicate fruit and lowered its branches as if to save me the trouble of reachich out for them.The sweet santol,the scented and mellow tampoy,the pink makopa vied for my favor.Father away,the plum tree,the harsh but flavorous casuy,and the beatiful tamarind pleased the eye as much as they delighted the palate.Here the papaya streatched out its broad leaves and tempted the birds with its enermous fruit;there the nangka,the coffee,and the orange trees perfumed the air with the aroma of their flowers.On this side the iba,the balimbing,the pomegrante with its abundant foliage and its lovely flowers bewitched the senses;while here and there rose elegant and majestic trees loaded with huge nuts,swaying thier proud tops and gracefull baranches,queens of the forests.I should never end were I to number all our trees and amuse my self in identifying them.
In the twilight innumerable birds gathered from every where and I,a child of three years at most,amused my self watching them with wonder and joy.The yellow kuliawan,the maya in all the varieties,the kulae,the Maria kapra,the martin,all the species of pipit joined the pleasant harmony and raised in varied chorus a farewell hymn to the sun as it vanished behind the tall mountains of my town.
Then the clouds,through a capris of nature,combined in a thousand shapes,which would suddenly dissolve even as those charming days were also to dissolve,living me only the slightest recollections.Even now,when I look out of the window of our house at the splendid panorama of twilight,thoughts that arelong since gone renew themselves with nostalgic eagerness.
Came then the night to unfold her mantle,somber at times,for all its stars,when the chaise Diana failed to coures trought the sky in pursuit of her brother Apollo.But when she appeared,a vague brightness was to be dis-cerned in the clouds:then seemingly they would crumble;and little she was to be seen,lovely,grave,and silent,rising like an immense globe which an invisible and omnipotent hand drew through space.
At such times my mother gathered us all together to say the rosary.Afterward we would go to the azotea or to some window from where the moon could be seen,and my ayah would tell us stories,sometimes lugubrious and at other times gay.In which skeletons and buried treasures and trees that bloomed with diamonds were mingled in confusion,all of them born on an imagination wholly Oriental.Sometimes she told us that men lived on the moon,or that the markings which we could percieve on it were nothing else than a woman who was forever weaving.
There the delicious atis displayed its delicate fruit and lowered its branches as if to save me the trouble of reachich out for them.The sweet santol,the scented and mellow tampoy,the pink makopa vied for my favor.Father away,the plum tree,the harsh but flavorous casuy,and the beatiful tamarind pleased the eye as much as they delighted the palate.Here the papaya streatched out its broad leaves and tempted the birds with its enermous fruit;there the nangka,the coffee,and the orange trees perfumed the air with the aroma of their flowers.On this side the iba,the balimbing,the pomegrante with its abundant foliage and its lovely flowers bewitched the senses;while here and there rose elegant and majestic trees loaded with huge nuts,swaying thier proud tops and gracefull baranches,queens of the forests.I should never end were I to number all our trees and amuse my self in identifying them.
In the twilight innumerable birds gathered from every where and I,a child of three years at most,amused my self watching them with wonder and joy.The yellow kuliawan,the maya in all the varieties,the kulae,the Maria kapra,the martin,all the species of pipit joined the pleasant harmony and raised in varied chorus a farewell hymn to the sun as it vanished behind the tall mountains of my town.
Then the clouds,through a capris of nature,combined in a thousand shapes,which would suddenly dissolve even as those charming days were also to dissolve,living me only the slightest recollections.Even now,when I look out of the window of our house at the splendid panorama of twilight,thoughts that arelong since gone renew themselves with nostalgic eagerness.
Came then the night to unfold her mantle,somber at times,for all its stars,when the chaise Diana failed to coures trought the sky in pursuit of her brother Apollo.But when she appeared,a vague brightness was to be dis-cerned in the clouds:then seemingly they would crumble;and little she was to be seen,lovely,grave,and silent,rising like an immense globe which an invisible and omnipotent hand drew through space.
At such times my mother gathered us all together to say the rosary.Afterward we would go to the azotea or to some window from where the moon could be seen,and my ayah would tell us stories,sometimes lugubrious and at other times gay.In which skeletons and buried treasures and trees that bloomed with diamonds were mingled in confusion,all of them born on an imagination wholly Oriental.Sometimes she told us that men lived on the moon,or that the markings which we could percieve on it were nothing else than a woman who was forever weaving.
tarlac dike by:kerima polotan
The tarlac dike that is reported to have cracked and send thousands fleeing for their lives was the dike of my childhood. Many years ago I live in Tarlac,in a house off Tanedo Street whose kitchen overlooked that dike.It stretched from one end of town,from the railroad station all the way to Agana Bridge, and the dike was what I took to Tarlac High.People lived in crude little huts huddled close to the wall,on the land side and from the dike as I walked by,I could look into their lives.The dike curves ever so slightly in my memory,as though describing the arc of the slow ball.It was made of cements and had steps on either side,ever so often along the way. You could walk up to the ledge and walk into the river if you wished,but the river was not the fearsome one reported today but a friendly,familiar one in which the debris of living floated-old chairs,dead pigs,empty sardine cans.
it never flooded in the years i lived there but the waters rose to the ledge when it rained lapping againts the wall.In summer the river behind my house disap peared,and it was the ending puzzel of my young life where it went because then in summer the riverbed dried up so compleatly that we could cross it,my friends and I,balancing ourselves on the huge stones that the June rains hid,on our way to the barrios across,where the fruit trees awaited our plunder. And such plunder it was!Guavas,unriped mangoes,chicos,the fruit of the childhood that hunt the periphery of the tongue no matter how far one has gone and what diverse tables and one has sat at.
I had a good friend then who would later become one of the richest woman in the province(or so I'm told):but I don't suppose she cares to remmember the nipa hut she used to lived in and the hores that pulled the rig which was the source of their livelihood.I remember helping her walked their house occasionally-a privilege,I thought, because it was a handsome animal. A calesa ride was five centavos,a fast and exiting race down main street behind a spirited animal,but since five centavos was all I have to live on everyday,I took the dike,instead of saving my money for a slice of cake at recess.
It was cool,damp walked in the morning on the dike,and if all one thought of was getting to school,you could reach the back of the Traid School Building in ten minutes,walked down the steps,cross Romulo Boulevard,and be in time for the flag ceremony. But there where diversions to see---life stirring in the dark interiors of the dike houses,breakfast being set,childred hushed,a wife nagging,a husband scratching himself at the window,clothes hon out to dry,flower pots watered,detours of the imagination that helped the passerby and dellayed him.
But the walked in the afternoon was the best part of all.We dragged our wooden clogs and our school bags,taking our time,my friends and I,thinking of home and supper.Along the dike the mothers called to their children;the houses sprang alive with kerosene lamps.The smell of the river would come up to us,and we would look acroos it to the other bank,talking of approaching summer,planning forays to melon patches.
On clear nights the river would glisten,one huge sheet of of dark glass from our kitchen window.My friend has gone on to wealth and status,not too easily accesible to people these days,but I do enough remembring for the two of us.I suppose we weather everything---I have survived her success without envy,and my reminiscences must live her untouched.Only the wall to high school girls had thought would last a hundred years has crumbled,a casualty of government neglect and shortsightedness.
But my mind never lets go.The dike that the papers say has given way stands stubbornly in my memory,a sweep of cement and sand,and the paucity in my children's lives includesthe absence of such memory of their lives.
it never flooded in the years i lived there but the waters rose to the ledge when it rained lapping againts the wall.In summer the river behind my house disap peared,and it was the ending puzzel of my young life where it went because then in summer the riverbed dried up so compleatly that we could cross it,my friends and I,balancing ourselves on the huge stones that the June rains hid,on our way to the barrios across,where the fruit trees awaited our plunder. And such plunder it was!Guavas,unriped mangoes,chicos,the fruit of the childhood that hunt the periphery of the tongue no matter how far one has gone and what diverse tables and one has sat at.
I had a good friend then who would later become one of the richest woman in the province(or so I'm told):but I don't suppose she cares to remmember the nipa hut she used to lived in and the hores that pulled the rig which was the source of their livelihood.I remember helping her walked their house occasionally-a privilege,I thought, because it was a handsome animal. A calesa ride was five centavos,a fast and exiting race down main street behind a spirited animal,but since five centavos was all I have to live on everyday,I took the dike,instead of saving my money for a slice of cake at recess.
It was cool,damp walked in the morning on the dike,and if all one thought of was getting to school,you could reach the back of the Traid School Building in ten minutes,walked down the steps,cross Romulo Boulevard,and be in time for the flag ceremony. But there where diversions to see---life stirring in the dark interiors of the dike houses,breakfast being set,childred hushed,a wife nagging,a husband scratching himself at the window,clothes hon out to dry,flower pots watered,detours of the imagination that helped the passerby and dellayed him.
But the walked in the afternoon was the best part of all.We dragged our wooden clogs and our school bags,taking our time,my friends and I,thinking of home and supper.Along the dike the mothers called to their children;the houses sprang alive with kerosene lamps.The smell of the river would come up to us,and we would look acroos it to the other bank,talking of approaching summer,planning forays to melon patches.
On clear nights the river would glisten,one huge sheet of of dark glass from our kitchen window.My friend has gone on to wealth and status,not too easily accesible to people these days,but I do enough remembring for the two of us.I suppose we weather everything---I have survived her success without envy,and my reminiscences must live her untouched.Only the wall to high school girls had thought would last a hundred years has crumbled,a casualty of government neglect and shortsightedness.
But my mind never lets go.The dike that the papers say has given way stands stubbornly in my memory,a sweep of cement and sand,and the paucity in my children's lives includesthe absence of such memory of their lives.
The World in a Train Francisco Icasiano
One Sunday I entrained for Baliwag, a town in Bulacan which can wellafford to hold two fiestas a year without a qualm.I took the train partly because I am prejudiced in favor of the governmentowned railroad, partly because I am allowed comparative comfort in a coach, and finally because trains sometimes leave and arrive according to schedule.In the coach I found a little world, a section of the abstraction called humanity whom we are supposed to love and live for. I had previously arranged to divide the idle hour or so between cultivating my neglected Christianity and smoothing out the rough edges of my nature with the aid of grateful sights without – the rolling wheels,the flying huts and trees and light-green palay seedlings and carabaos along the way.Inertia, I suppose, and the sort of reality we moderns know make falling in love with my immediate neighbors often a matter of severe strain and effort to me.Let me give a sketchy picture of the little world whose company Mang Kiko shared in moments which soon passed away affecting most of us. First, there came to my notice three husky individuals who dusted their seats furiously with their handkerchiefs without regard to hygiene or the brotherhood of men. It gave me no little annoyance that on such a quiet morning the unpleasant aspects in other people's ways should claim my attention. Then there was a harmless-looking middle-aged man in green camisa de chino
with rolled sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I noticed him he was already snuggly entrenched in a corner seat, with his slippered feet comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the while his head danced and dangled with the motion of the train. I could not, for the love of me, imagine how he would look if he were awake.A child of six in the next seat must have shared with me in speculating about the dreams of this sleeping man in green. Was he dreaming of the Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he any worries about the permanent dominion status or the final outcome of the struggles of the masses, or was it merely the arrangement of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that brought that frown on his face? But the party that most engaged my attention was a family of eight composed of a short but efficient father, four very young children, mother, grandmother, and another woman who must have been the efficient father's sister. They distributed themselves on four benches – you know the kind of seats facing each other so that half the passengers travel backward. The more I looked at the short but young and efficient father the shorter his parts looked to me. His movements were fast and short, too. He removed his coat, folded it carefully and slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted his money while his wife and the rest of his
group watched the ritual without a word. Then the short, young, and efficient father stood up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles on one bench and log luncheon was ready at ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the charge, the children (except the baby in his grandmother's arms) began to dig away with little encouragement and aid from the elders. In a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy – shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce – were routed out, save for a few shrimps and some rice left for the grandmother to handle in her own style later. Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father, with a glass in hand, led the march to the train faucet, followed by three children whose faces still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle. In passing between me and a person, then engaged in a casual conversation with me, the short but efficient father made a courteous gesture which is still good to see in these democratic days; he bent from the hips and, dropping both hands, made an opening in the air between my collocutor and me – a gesture which in unspoiled places means "Excuse Me." In one of the stations where the train stopped, a bent old woman in black boarded the train. As it moved away, the old woman went about the coach, begging holding every prospective Samaritan by the arm, and stretching forth her gnarled hand in the familiar fashion so distasteful to me at that time. There is something in begging which destroys some fiber in most men. "Every time you drop a penny into a beggar's palm you help degrade a man and make it more difficult for him to rise with dignity. . ." There was something in his beggar's eye which seemed to demand. "Now doyour duty." And I did. Willy-nilly I dropped a coin and thereby filled my life with repulsion. Is this Christianity? "Blessed are the poor . . ." But with what speed didthat bent old woman cross the platform into the next coach! While thus engaged in unwholesome thought, I felt myself jerked as the train made a curve to the right. The toddler of the family of eight lost his balance and caught the short but efficient father off-guard. In an instant all his efficiency was employed in collecting the shrieking toddler from under his seat. The child had, in no time, developed two elongated bumps on the head, upon which was applied amoist piece of cloth. There were no reproaches, no words spoken. The discipline in the family was remarkable, or was it because they considered the head as a minor anatomical appendage and was therefore nor worth the fuss? Occasionally, when the child's crying rose above the din of the locomotive andthe clinkety-clank of the wheels on the rails, the father would jog about a bit without blushing, look at the bumps on his child's head, shake his own, and move his lips saying, "Tsk, Tsk. And nothing more. Fairly tired of assuming the minor responsibilities of my neighbors in this little world in motion, I looked into the distant horizon where the blue Cordilleras mergedinto the blue of the sky. There I rested my thoughts upon the billowing silver and grey of the clouds, lightly remarking upon their being a trial to us, although they may not know it. We each would mind our own business and suffer in silence for the littlest mistakes of others; laughing at their ways if we happened to be in a position to suspend our emotion and view the whole scene as a god would; or, we could weep for other men if we are the mood to shed copious tears over the whole tragic aspect of a world
thrown out of joint. It is strange how human sympathy operates. We assume an attitude of complete indifference to utter strangers whom we have seen but not met. We claim that they are the hardest to fall in love with in the normal exercise of Christian charity. Then a little child falls from a seat, or a beggar stretches forth a gnarled hand, or three husky men dust their seats; and we are, despite our pretensions, affected. Why not? If even a sleeping man who does nothing touches our life!
with rolled sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I noticed him he was already snuggly entrenched in a corner seat, with his slippered feet comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the while his head danced and dangled with the motion of the train. I could not, for the love of me, imagine how he would look if he were awake.A child of six in the next seat must have shared with me in speculating about the dreams of this sleeping man in green. Was he dreaming of the Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he any worries about the permanent dominion status or the final outcome of the struggles of the masses, or was it merely the arrangement of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that brought that frown on his face? But the party that most engaged my attention was a family of eight composed of a short but efficient father, four very young children, mother, grandmother, and another woman who must have been the efficient father's sister. They distributed themselves on four benches – you know the kind of seats facing each other so that half the passengers travel backward. The more I looked at the short but young and efficient father the shorter his parts looked to me. His movements were fast and short, too. He removed his coat, folded it carefully and slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted his money while his wife and the rest of his
group watched the ritual without a word. Then the short, young, and efficient father stood up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles on one bench and log luncheon was ready at ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the charge, the children (except the baby in his grandmother's arms) began to dig away with little encouragement and aid from the elders. In a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy – shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce – were routed out, save for a few shrimps and some rice left for the grandmother to handle in her own style later. Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father, with a glass in hand, led the march to the train faucet, followed by three children whose faces still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle. In passing between me and a person, then engaged in a casual conversation with me, the short but efficient father made a courteous gesture which is still good to see in these democratic days; he bent from the hips and, dropping both hands, made an opening in the air between my collocutor and me – a gesture which in unspoiled places means "Excuse Me." In one of the stations where the train stopped, a bent old woman in black boarded the train. As it moved away, the old woman went about the coach, begging holding every prospective Samaritan by the arm, and stretching forth her gnarled hand in the familiar fashion so distasteful to me at that time. There is something in begging which destroys some fiber in most men. "Every time you drop a penny into a beggar's palm you help degrade a man and make it more difficult for him to rise with dignity. . ." There was something in his beggar's eye which seemed to demand. "Now doyour duty." And I did. Willy-nilly I dropped a coin and thereby filled my life with repulsion. Is this Christianity? "Blessed are the poor . . ." But with what speed didthat bent old woman cross the platform into the next coach! While thus engaged in unwholesome thought, I felt myself jerked as the train made a curve to the right. The toddler of the family of eight lost his balance and caught the short but efficient father off-guard. In an instant all his efficiency was employed in collecting the shrieking toddler from under his seat. The child had, in no time, developed two elongated bumps on the head, upon which was applied amoist piece of cloth. There were no reproaches, no words spoken. The discipline in the family was remarkable, or was it because they considered the head as a minor anatomical appendage and was therefore nor worth the fuss? Occasionally, when the child's crying rose above the din of the locomotive andthe clinkety-clank of the wheels on the rails, the father would jog about a bit without blushing, look at the bumps on his child's head, shake his own, and move his lips saying, "Tsk, Tsk. And nothing more. Fairly tired of assuming the minor responsibilities of my neighbors in this little world in motion, I looked into the distant horizon where the blue Cordilleras mergedinto the blue of the sky. There I rested my thoughts upon the billowing silver and grey of the clouds, lightly remarking upon their being a trial to us, although they may not know it. We each would mind our own business and suffer in silence for the littlest mistakes of others; laughing at their ways if we happened to be in a position to suspend our emotion and view the whole scene as a god would; or, we could weep for other men if we are the mood to shed copious tears over the whole tragic aspect of a world
thrown out of joint. It is strange how human sympathy operates. We assume an attitude of complete indifference to utter strangers whom we have seen but not met. We claim that they are the hardest to fall in love with in the normal exercise of Christian charity. Then a little child falls from a seat, or a beggar stretches forth a gnarled hand, or three husky men dust their seats; and we are, despite our pretensions, affected. Why not? If even a sleeping man who does nothing touches our life!
Letter To His Parents from San Francisco
San Francisco, California
S.S. Belgic, 29 April 1888
My dear Parents,
Here we are in sight of America since yesterday without being able to disembark, placed in quarantine on account of the 642 Chinese that we have on board coming from Hong Kong where they say smallpox prevails. But the true reason is that, as America is against Chinese immigration and now they are campaigning for the elections, the government, in order to get the vote of the people, must appear to be strict with the Chinese, and we suffer. On board there is not one sick person.
On the 13th of this month I left Yokohama, leaving behind Japan, for me a very pleasant country, despite the proposals of the Spanish charge d'affaires who offered me a post in the legation even at a salary of 100 pesos monthly. Under other circumstances I would have accepted it; but at this moment it would be madness. Our trip, which lasted 15 days and hours and during which we had two Thursdays, because we traveled in the direction opposite the sun, was quite good, at least for me who never had such a long one without being seasick. The food was bad and tiresome. Through the kindness of the Spanish minister, or charge d'affaires, you'll receive two sets for tea and coffee of the best made in Japan that I ordered expressly for the family. The tea service is of faience according to the style of ancient Kyoto and the coffee set is of porcelain. To the connoisseurs they are the best. According to the charge d'affaires, they will reach you free of charge through the government. Also I'm sending along two doors, very beautiful and very rare, as a gift to my brother Senor Paciano so he can make an elegant furniture with them. The charge d'affaires himself will get in touch with my brother and will write him a letter. I hope my brother will become his friend, for he will be useful to him when he would like to export his articles to Japan. Don't forget to answer him.
At the entreaties of the same gentleman I stayed at the legation with him and the other members in order to prove to the rest that I fear neither vigilance nor observation nor have I any misgiving of any kind. As I have the firm conviction that I act uprightly and that I'm in the hands of God who has always guided me and helped me, I have feared nothing, and I succeeded to make myself the friend of those gentlemen. These, however, made a sad prediction for me; they told me that in the Philippines I would be forced to become a filibustero 1.
I'll not advise anyone to make this trip to America, for here they are crazy about quarantine, they have severe customs inspection, imposing on any thing duties upon duties that are enormous, enormous.
Before I left Japan, I sent you 10 combs to be distributed among my sisters. I suppose likewise that you must have received the vaccine as well as the picture of my poor little sister Olimpia.
Write me at London, 12 Billiter Street. Give me news about the family and the question of the hacienda (estate) that I wish to pursue vigorously.
With nothing more, I wish you to keep in good health until we meet again, which I hope will be soon.
I kiss affectionately your hand.
Jose Rizal
S.S. Belgic, 29 April 1888
My dear Parents,
Here we are in sight of America since yesterday without being able to disembark, placed in quarantine on account of the 642 Chinese that we have on board coming from Hong Kong where they say smallpox prevails. But the true reason is that, as America is against Chinese immigration and now they are campaigning for the elections, the government, in order to get the vote of the people, must appear to be strict with the Chinese, and we suffer. On board there is not one sick person.
On the 13th of this month I left Yokohama, leaving behind Japan, for me a very pleasant country, despite the proposals of the Spanish charge d'affaires who offered me a post in the legation even at a salary of 100 pesos monthly. Under other circumstances I would have accepted it; but at this moment it would be madness. Our trip, which lasted 15 days and hours and during which we had two Thursdays, because we traveled in the direction opposite the sun, was quite good, at least for me who never had such a long one without being seasick. The food was bad and tiresome. Through the kindness of the Spanish minister, or charge d'affaires, you'll receive two sets for tea and coffee of the best made in Japan that I ordered expressly for the family. The tea service is of faience according to the style of ancient Kyoto and the coffee set is of porcelain. To the connoisseurs they are the best. According to the charge d'affaires, they will reach you free of charge through the government. Also I'm sending along two doors, very beautiful and very rare, as a gift to my brother Senor Paciano so he can make an elegant furniture with them. The charge d'affaires himself will get in touch with my brother and will write him a letter. I hope my brother will become his friend, for he will be useful to him when he would like to export his articles to Japan. Don't forget to answer him.
At the entreaties of the same gentleman I stayed at the legation with him and the other members in order to prove to the rest that I fear neither vigilance nor observation nor have I any misgiving of any kind. As I have the firm conviction that I act uprightly and that I'm in the hands of God who has always guided me and helped me, I have feared nothing, and I succeeded to make myself the friend of those gentlemen. These, however, made a sad prediction for me; they told me that in the Philippines I would be forced to become a filibustero 1.
I'll not advise anyone to make this trip to America, for here they are crazy about quarantine, they have severe customs inspection, imposing on any thing duties upon duties that are enormous, enormous.
Before I left Japan, I sent you 10 combs to be distributed among my sisters. I suppose likewise that you must have received the vaccine as well as the picture of my poor little sister Olimpia.
Write me at London, 12 Billiter Street. Give me news about the family and the question of the hacienda (estate) that I wish to pursue vigorously.
With nothing more, I wish you to keep in good health until we meet again, which I hope will be soon.
I kiss affectionately your hand.
Jose Rizal
Siesta (An exerpt) by Leopoldo Serrano
When I was a boy, one of the rules at home that I did not like at all was to be made to lie on the bare floor of our sala after lunch. I usually lay side by side with two other children in the family. We were forced to sleep by my mother. She watched us as we darned old dresses, read an awit, or hammed a cradle song in Tagalog.
She always reminded us that sleeping at noon enables children to grow fast like the grass in our yard. In this way, in most Filipino homes many years ago, children made to understand what the siesta was. Very often I had to pretend to be asleep by closing my eyes.
Once while my mother was away, I tries to sneak out of the house during the siesta hour. I had not gone far when I felt something hit me hard on the back. Looking behind, I saw my father. He was annoyed because I had disturbed his siesta. I picked up a pillow at my feet, gave it to him, and went back to our mat. The two other children were fast asleep. The sight of the whip, symbol of parental authority, hanging on the posts, gave me no other choice but to lie down.
During my childhood, whenever we had house guests, my mother never failed to put mats and pillows on the floor of our living room after the noonday meal. Then she would invite our guests to have their siesta. Hospitality and good taste demanded that this be not overlooked.
The custom of having a siesta was introduces in our country by the Spaniards. Indee, during the Spanish times, the Philippines was the land of the fiesta the novena, and the siesta.
Many foreigners have noted this custom among our people. Some believe that even the guards at the gates of Intramuros had their siesta. It was a commonly known fact that every afternoon the gates of the city were closed for fear of a surprise attack.
The ayuntamiento of Manila or the commander of the regiment in Intramuros did well in ordering the closing of the gates during the siesta hour. Once, the Chinese living in Parian, just a short way from the Walled City, timed the beginning of one of their revolts by attacking at two o’clock in the afternoon. They were sure that the dons, including the guards and sentinels, were having their siesta. They felt that they would be more successful if the attack came at siesta time.
Even today visits to Filipino homes are not usually made between one o’clock and two o’clock in the afternoon. It is presumed that the people in the house are having their siesta. It is not polite to have them awakened from their noonday nap to accommodate visitors. There is well-known saying believed by many of our people: “You may joke with a drunkard but not one who has been disturbed during his siesta.”
Our custom of having our siesta has not been greatly affected by American influence. We have not learned the Yankee’s bustle and eagerness of endurance for continuous work throughout the day.
But if only for its health –giving effects, we should be grateful to the Spaniards for the siesta, especially during the hot weather, for the siesta serves to restore the energy lost while working under a hot climate.
She always reminded us that sleeping at noon enables children to grow fast like the grass in our yard. In this way, in most Filipino homes many years ago, children made to understand what the siesta was. Very often I had to pretend to be asleep by closing my eyes.
Once while my mother was away, I tries to sneak out of the house during the siesta hour. I had not gone far when I felt something hit me hard on the back. Looking behind, I saw my father. He was annoyed because I had disturbed his siesta. I picked up a pillow at my feet, gave it to him, and went back to our mat. The two other children were fast asleep. The sight of the whip, symbol of parental authority, hanging on the posts, gave me no other choice but to lie down.
During my childhood, whenever we had house guests, my mother never failed to put mats and pillows on the floor of our living room after the noonday meal. Then she would invite our guests to have their siesta. Hospitality and good taste demanded that this be not overlooked.
The custom of having a siesta was introduces in our country by the Spaniards. Indee, during the Spanish times, the Philippines was the land of the fiesta the novena, and the siesta.
Many foreigners have noted this custom among our people. Some believe that even the guards at the gates of Intramuros had their siesta. It was a commonly known fact that every afternoon the gates of the city were closed for fear of a surprise attack.
The ayuntamiento of Manila or the commander of the regiment in Intramuros did well in ordering the closing of the gates during the siesta hour. Once, the Chinese living in Parian, just a short way from the Walled City, timed the beginning of one of their revolts by attacking at two o’clock in the afternoon. They were sure that the dons, including the guards and sentinels, were having their siesta. They felt that they would be more successful if the attack came at siesta time.
Even today visits to Filipino homes are not usually made between one o’clock and two o’clock in the afternoon. It is presumed that the people in the house are having their siesta. It is not polite to have them awakened from their noonday nap to accommodate visitors. There is well-known saying believed by many of our people: “You may joke with a drunkard but not one who has been disturbed during his siesta.”
Our custom of having our siesta has not been greatly affected by American influence. We have not learned the Yankee’s bustle and eagerness of endurance for continuous work throughout the day.
But if only for its health –giving effects, we should be grateful to the Spaniards for the siesta, especially during the hot weather, for the siesta serves to restore the energy lost while working under a hot climate.
Man Upon the Cross
Crimson fire,
the sky is burned.
Filled with smoke,
the heavens cry blood.
A crimson rain,
for the crimson flames.
How did I get this way?
I only wanted to be sane...
To be like the rest,
but different in my own way...
Only to be like the rest...
The darkness called me,
I went to it with open arms.
I bathed within evil,
I became corrupt.
Who am I?
What am I?
How have I gone wrong?
Crimson fires envelope my castle,
the castle eclipsed by the sun.
Like the moon over the sun.
I thought this is what I wanted.
I thought this was for the best.
I thought I was right..
But now I find I am wrong...
And now the Heavens cry...
And my castle burns...
I step through the castle doors,
and the flames part.
This is my home.
Always has,
always will.
These flames are not warm,
nor are they cold.
Yet they burn all the same,
feeding on what I once was.
Replacing carpet with marble,
wood with stone,
bright colors to midnight black.
Within my personal chamber it is no different,
crimson flames eat me away.
Upon the wall hangs a Black Cross,
nailed upon is a single figure.
Clad in the night I look closer,
I see his clothes,
that of my earlier years.
I look at his face,
scorched and burned by the flames,
I look deep into his Icy Blue eyes,
and that is where I realize...
The man upon the cross...
The man upon the cross...
He is me...
I know who I have become...
I know what I have done...
I know all too well...
the sky is burned.
Filled with smoke,
the heavens cry blood.
A crimson rain,
for the crimson flames.
How did I get this way?
I only wanted to be sane...
To be like the rest,
but different in my own way...
Only to be like the rest...
The darkness called me,
I went to it with open arms.
I bathed within evil,
I became corrupt.
Who am I?
What am I?
How have I gone wrong?
Crimson fires envelope my castle,
the castle eclipsed by the sun.
Like the moon over the sun.
I thought this is what I wanted.
I thought this was for the best.
I thought I was right..
But now I find I am wrong...
And now the Heavens cry...
And my castle burns...
I step through the castle doors,
and the flames part.
This is my home.
Always has,
always will.
These flames are not warm,
nor are they cold.
Yet they burn all the same,
feeding on what I once was.
Replacing carpet with marble,
wood with stone,
bright colors to midnight black.
Within my personal chamber it is no different,
crimson flames eat me away.
Upon the wall hangs a Black Cross,
nailed upon is a single figure.
Clad in the night I look closer,
I see his clothes,
that of my earlier years.
I look at his face,
scorched and burned by the flames,
I look deep into his Icy Blue eyes,
and that is where I realize...
The man upon the cross...
The man upon the cross...
He is me...
I know who I have become...
I know what I have done...
I know all too well...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)