Thanks Ding! More photos coming soon …

The HEdCen U-10 team’s participation in ANZA 2008 was proudly sponsored by the following:

Alcatel-Lucent

EBDI Philippines, Inc.

Pacific Paint (Boysen) Phils., Inc.

Lebria Transport

The above photos in this post are courtesy of ‘98 soccer dad Derek B, who wasn’t sure if he could hand-carry this beauty home.

They’re edible but (according to Mabel, Mallotte and Kiteen) they taste a bit tart. They’re also tinier than the cultivated variety and, as you can see, some of the oddly-shaped ones glow with a luster that’s very tempting, promising to explode with a juicy burst in your mouth.

The journey is almost at end. We pause for rest, trying to rid ourselves of nervous exhaustion. The journey is almost at end. There will be tomorrow, but tonight we sleep. Only He remains awake.

Wine and poison.

In the garden above us, while we sleep, They meet. Nothing can be changed, that was clear. It had to be the way it was foretold. By His death. By His life. He understands and accepts. By His life we see, by His death we live.

Swords and spears.

A kiss, and the soldiers come for Him. We try to fight, but He would have no one hurt. He goes with them. A kiss is all it takes.

Whips and thorns.

Let us go in His place, please. We cry inside but before the cock crows, we forget, we deny. We give Him more pain that all the lashes He receives.

Wood and nails.

The long march to the hill is through. He falls along the way but here on the hill He is raised up high. For all to see. Or pretend not to see.

The journey is at end. He is tired. He thirsts. For us, for our love. Despite the pain, He cries to His Father to forgive us, for we are ignorant of what we have done.

He dies. For we have killed Him. So we may live. By His life we see, by His death we live. By His resurrection, we are freed.

But this is just a story, or so it’s been said. A story for those who believe.

It is for the silent ones, the handful of Nomads who fail to join the din, she cares most about. The Keeper goes over to each of them, disturbed by the stillness. She wonders if she has not wrapped the Shroud properly, removes it, and takes even greater care in putting it back on the Nomad. If the Nomad remains soundless, the Keeper takes a knife, slices off a tiny flap of cloth from the Shroud and like the most pliant clay imaginable, stretches it out, kneading and molding it into a Mask of Joy/Sorrow which she affixes to the Nomad’s face. Before long, the Nomad utters its first cry of delight or anguish and the Mask quickly dissolves, its task done.

The Keeper then proceeds to the next unyielding Nomad and repeats the process. She cannot stand indifference to her handiwork. As long as they dwell in her world, the Nomads are her people, her immediate audience. The Keeper bids them heed her one commandment: Let me hear you laugh and weep.

(This post is part of The Keeper of Memories series, which started with The Keeper of Memories made in November 2007, followed by The Hands of the Keeper of Memories (I) written in January 2008, and The Memory Shrouds of the Keeper done last month. Original ink drawing by Riana and digital colorized collage by e.s.)

Call them Nomads, humans who, by some quirk of fate or self-inflicted act or sheer dint of age, have lost the ability to create new memories. They are the comatose, the amnesiacs, the senile, the traumatized, the psychologically deranged, and the wretched substance abusers among us who can no longer weave conscious threads of their being with their lives. They arrive with no purpose save to view the remnants of what they still may (or care to) remember.

The ritual is always the same: The Keeper greets each by name, leads the Nomad to the bank where his or her drawer lies, pulls it open, and retrieves its entire cache as fibers writhing into a Möbius strip of gossamer fabric. The Nomad kneels, and with the reverence we accord our dead, the Keeper wraps the Memory Shroud around the head, neck, shoulders, and heart of the visitor, surrounding the latter with animated vistas of the Past, the infinite loop of a bygone symphony to be replayed over and over as often as desired.

There the Nomad remains, with countless others similarly accoutered, languishing in limbo until its bodily form in the Present becomes sentient again or dies without recovering. When that happens, the Memory Shroud flutters down in a wrinkled heap. Then the Keeper returns it to its compartment, where it changes back to the original bits and pieces of the Nomad’s Past in the chronological order they were stashed away.

(This post is a continuation of The Keeper of Memories made in November 2007 and The Hands of the Keeper of Memories (I) written in January 2008.)

Last December, the school sponsored the First Communion of members of the Grade Three class, at the Immaculate Heart of Mary Parish in Antipolo. The celebration of the sacrament, officiated by incumbent parish priest Fr. Joel Victorino, with the choir of HEdCen Grade 4 students led by Sir Roi on guitar, captured the joy, solemnity and wonder befitting the occasion. Much to the surprise and pleasure of the parents, Teacher Emma and several faculty members attended the ceremony.

The communicants did us proud, proof of the hard work they put in during rehearsals under the guidance of the ever-patient Teacher Vivs. We marveled at the sense of importance our sons and daughters gave to every aspect they participated in the Mass, from the responses to the choreographed hand gestures of some songs, all the way to the reverence with which they knelt and received the Body of Christ for the first time.

From the church, the communicants, their parents and the other members of the HEdCen community proceeded to the school, where the communicants were welcomed with confetti as they entered the campus. Of course, to end the special morning, we had a munting salu-salo of pasta, dinuguan at puto, Baby Claravall’s velvet cake (which was gone in a matter of seconds), and a host (pun intended) of other dishes, plus cold drinks courtesy of Ruel and Ruby Terry, and we all went home well-nourished in body and spirit.

Thank you HedCen, for making our children’s First Communion Celebration truly memorable!

(Photos courtesy of Ms. Sarj Protacio, mom of Mico and Gio, and Mr. Derek Brugada, dad of Kaze. And my apologies for the somewhat belated nature of this post. Better late than never!)

As these moments of recall unfold themselves cupped in her palms, the Keeper has no choice, whether for better or for worse, but to undergo as only she can, what each of us went through. The Keeper accepts this duty willingly. Though she is powerless to alter our memories, whatever we long/care/fear to remember return to us only after they have lain in the warm caress of her omnisensorial hands.

Because of this, and as you may have already guessed, the Keeper is gifted (and burdened) with the ability to understand and share the feelings of others.

Hence, the Keeper of Memories is known too as The Mistress of Empathy.

(This post is a continuation of The Keeper of Memories made in November 2007.)

As He lay with Mary close by
In His manger of golden hay
Did He see the cross before Him
Three and thirty years away

He will come again
But ‘til that day is here
Let us live our lives
In the words of the Son
“Oh Father, Thy will be done.”

We will wait for that Good Friday
In the hope of Easter morn
But tonight rejoice and celebrate
For Jesus Christ is born
He is born
He is born
The Child is born.