It is May again!
When bougainvillas explode in their fiery exuberance, when kalachuchis declare their immaculate dominance, and when sampaguitas seed the evening air with their nostalgic sweetness – it is May again.
May – what a month of youth and songs! What a season of awakening, discovery, and excitement! Years ago, when greener was the grass in our meadow, May would stir us into some kind of strange restlessness that made the heart pine for something enchanting yet undefined, something desirable yet unnamed. And so with others of our age, we would hie to places less frequented by sophisticated feet but rich in nature’s wonders, hoping to find what was far-off beyond the sight, beyond the realm of the fading gleams.
We would then frolic in beaches or trek to some remote terrains, or take a dip in some forgotten watering holes. Days with these, then back we would retrace our footsteps, back to the rush and hurry on the concrete jungle of concrete sensibilities, back to the grind of the coal mine.
But where was peace? No peace because a boy’s will was the wind’s will and the thoughts of youth were long, long thoughts. Even in beaches which pulsated with youth like a woman’s bosom, even in the midst of jollity and jests among barkadas, peace eluded the heart, and the specter of emptiness taunted it and mocked it.
Then the vesper bells were heard. It was a sound for the ears, calm and subdued like a lament for the dying day. But it was also a sound for the soul touching it to the very core. From an old church the prayer-call echoed from shanty to shanty, from heart to heart, bringing solace from the cares of day, and quietude for erring souls.
And we listened, traced the call to where the Virgin reigned. Flores de Mayo! There amidst flaming candles and freshened flowers stood the Mother of God. Gowned in blue and veiled in a transparent wimple she was awe-inspiring to behold.
Who could remain unmoved by such hallowed sight? Little boys and girls clad in white bringing gifts of myriad blossoms for the Mother of the Lord to delight on. Little girls and boys stepping ritually singing “Dios te salve Maria…” then gently falling on their knees and intoning, “Adto na kami, Maria…” while the bells kept pealing, pealing prayerfully as if to accentuate the sacredness of the moment between a Mother and her dearly beloved little ones.
Who could remain callous to the call for penitence and prayer when right before you stood the Divine Presence made palpable by the light of myriad candles and the worship of the young and the old? Who could hold back the tears of remorse when right before you stood the purest being God ever created, one conceived without a tint of sin in her mother’s womb?
What we saw in the church that evening was our own epiphany. For every time the sun was about to set we would hear the bells’ prayer-call, not always as solid sound but mostly as a voiceless call, and always this would draw us like an unseen force to where the Flores ritual was. Those were days of wild wishes, work and study but we would drop whatever we were doing and rush to the church. And such was the rhythm of our youthful days when May was at hand.
It is May again! It is
May is for Mary. And the
The world becomes more beautiful in May. The sun is bright, the seas are sparkling, the woods are joyous with bird notes and blossoms. Despite hard life, Filipinos are lighthearted in May. Who cares if food is expensive? God won’t let them starve. If the birds don’t starve, how much more worthy are they who honor Him and His mother in May?
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