Homecoming musings

It’s the longest time I haven’t gone home since we left for a new foreign assignment. I withheld judgment and any sense of anticipation when I left New York for my circuitous transatlantic flight to the Philippines. On a planeload of Turkish and European speaking travelers, I was quite the odd one. It was a long haul so I intermittently entertained myself with episodes of “The Gilded Age” and reading “Some Memories of a Long Life,” a highly recommended book by the late US Supreme Court Justice Ruth Baden Ginsburg in her memoir, “My Own Words.”

On my final leg that would connect me to home, the genial smile of kababayans and the familiar hum of our language were comforting. The boarding gate was abuzz with exchanges. Eavesdropping, I surmised they were mostly seafarers and cruise ship staff, save for one lady who shared about how she managed to escape from an abusive employer and reported her to the police. She was fortunate to have booked a ticket home and vowed to never return again.

It isn’t even peak season yet the sea of arriving passengers visibly tells of the Filipino diaspora. At baggage claim in NAIA 3, the carousel halted many times, I wasn’t sure if it was mechanical error or it’s just how the machine works. I glanced at the exhausted faces that had just safely landed from a long journey. Perhaps, like me, the thought of loved ones excitedly waiting at the arrival hall placated the uncertainty for suitcases that have yet to appear. For a tired traveler, eager expectations are always a soothing balm to impatience.

It was an altogether different experience during my flight out to my hometown in Bicol. Check in and security clearance at NAIA 2 was seamless. Already impressed at the efficiency of the x-ray and body scanner, I was gladly surprised at the sight of more spacious boarding gates, neatly arranged seats, added charging stations, work areas and new shops. Basking at how things have changed after a year and a half of absence, I whiled away my time exploring the boarding gates until I have accomplished my 7,000 steps goal for that day. I am proud at how this part of our airport has improved and feel even more optimistic now at how gateways to our country could soon vanish from the list of worsts in the world.

Connections are central to this homecoming. From the vastness and exuberance of New York to the warmth and simplicity of the village I grew up in in my hometown Sorsogon, my physical surroundings may have shrunk. Yet authentic social and emotional encounters continue to expand day after day.

Constrained to immerse in America’s “individualistic culture” (a line I heard from a Sunday sermon) and obliged to assert my sense of independence while living in a city where I do not have many to rely on, I once more delight in the joy of being home. It’s one thing to connect with compatriots in a faraway land and another thing to reconnect with family and friends in the only place we call home. Home where one could affectionately marvel at a genuine sense of belonging.

Family matters and medical concerns of my still active and lucid 80-something parents compelled me to come home. “Preventive procedures” are necessary, their doctors assure, in order to maintain their quality of life in old age. This also doubles as time to recollect and reconnect with people who, over the years, remain as my towers of strength and wisdom.

What a gift it is to have spent time and engage in cheerful conversations with my two godmothers who are both a few months shy of 90. While one has been wheel chair-bound after miraculously surviving a bad fall a few months back, my other Ninang still goes to the market regularly. I could attribute their luminosity and longevity to a life devoid of stress, a healthy diet and a deep-seated faith backed by strong family and social networks.

I surmise that my parents adhere to the same formula. These days, with my father particularly, I cherish our conversations over breakfast and post dinner, where he would amuse me of his storied childhood. He poignantly talks about eventful chapters of his life and the timeless lessons gleaned from his own father who, despite reaching only Grade 4, was a learned man. He remembers and names all three newspapers my grandfather used to buy everyday. He read with gusto that made him adept with national and global issues. My father has yet to share untold details of his formative years after the war and his and my mother’s love story. How fortunate I am for these sessions in oral history.

I read about “reminiscence therapy” from a recent inspirational feature in The New York Times. The author tells of a trip she took and recreated with her father to repeat his childhood journey in Europe before Alzheimer’s slowly takes his memory. By taking the trip, the author hoped “that revisiting the past” would help her father “live in the present.” The author posits that reminiscence therapy “involves triggering the participants’ strongest memories,” those that have been shaped “between the ages 10 and 30.”

Revisiting the past with my parents may not be out of fear of dementia claiming their memory but from what my spiritual director counseled: “Let your parents tell their story.” I think of the timeliness of the advice and pick a tip or two from their long life and 59 years of marriage. Besides, I see how their eyes glisten at the mention of a name remembered, a place recalled and a detail recounted. Pondering on the past elicits their sense of joy, sparks laughter then shifts to tender moments.

When reminiscence therapy and lessons in oral history are at play, I gratefully muse at how they make for a perfectly meaningful homecoming.