One Unique Soul
I have never seen so much raw passion, honesty and depth in a person in my life. I met him first in Davao, although I have heard his affluent-sounding name (well, not just 'sounding' we all know that) from the information officers all over. He handled public affairs for our agency, so he is always up and running, especially if we were in a crisis, which was often. We had lunch at this restaurant in Davao, after farmers rallied in front of our conference venue with placards bearing God knows what, beating up our agency performance. He was cool throughout lunch, discussed strategies on dealing with the anger of the farmers, and how to contain the damage with the media. He spoke softly, while slowly munching on lunch. If I were in his situation then, I would have been rushed to the nearest hospital for hyperventilating, and lunch would definitely be out of the question.
I met him, worked with him several times after that, with him knowing my first name. He came to my province of assignment once and covered a milestone in our own little history far north. We were able to distribute a large landholding the provincial government owned to farmers, after almost twenty years of negotiations. He was there, camera on hand, swiftly moving from one spot to another to capture the images of that milestone. Quietly, he took shots of the event, and of many other subjects he saw in the area, like a piece of wood, a leaf hanging from a tree, a crack on the concrete wall, the photographer stuff, I call them. We had cup after cup of coffee that night, under the moonlit corner of the hotel he was booked in, fending off mosquitoes. Hindsight, I could not imagine how he endured my unending rambling about the accomplishment that day, and my anecdotes of the Governor who made it happen. I was talking too much, I recall, and worse, I was talking about myself. He was just smiling there, cup on hand, listening. He would interject a word or two, but mostly, it was just me. Recalling that now, how could I have been so self-involved with a man as accomplished as him?
On our way home to that hotel after that work day, he rode with me in my beat-up jeep, and I clearly remember the music playing on my stereo; it was a jazz version of Eric Clapton's 'Change The World'. And I am absolutely sure now that he was singing to the tune. Perhaps my recollection of that moment, and his days of retirement now, put together was this: we both want to 'change the world', in our own ways. Him, through his art, his nuggets of wisdom read between the lines of his comments and perspectives on my posts on social media, his drive to share the products of the little circuits lighted by rainbows playing in that brain of his. Me, by struggling day to day through the chaos of misunderstood or misguided people, trying bravely to gasp for air, just to get the work done.
Always, each time we bump into each other, he gives me this big, sweet bear hug. It is enough to let me know he is a friend, he is part of my life not just a mere presence, and that he loves me, as presumptuous as that may sound. He is not the peck-in-the-cheek type of guy. He gives warm embraces, and he is not the first one to let go. Now that he has retired, I think about the hugs, and I regret having been the first one to let go. He is a unique soul, one that gets to me, just be simply being who he is in his solitude, in his work, and with his family. Sometimes I do not understand what this world is all about, then I think about what he replied to one of my sarcastic remarks about that; he said, 'the world is not fair, Christianne'. He is right, really. For what fair world would conspire to make me always the first one to let go of that embrace?
I met him, worked with him several times after that, with him knowing my first name. He came to my province of assignment once and covered a milestone in our own little history far north. We were able to distribute a large landholding the provincial government owned to farmers, after almost twenty years of negotiations. He was there, camera on hand, swiftly moving from one spot to another to capture the images of that milestone. Quietly, he took shots of the event, and of many other subjects he saw in the area, like a piece of wood, a leaf hanging from a tree, a crack on the concrete wall, the photographer stuff, I call them. We had cup after cup of coffee that night, under the moonlit corner of the hotel he was booked in, fending off mosquitoes. Hindsight, I could not imagine how he endured my unending rambling about the accomplishment that day, and my anecdotes of the Governor who made it happen. I was talking too much, I recall, and worse, I was talking about myself. He was just smiling there, cup on hand, listening. He would interject a word or two, but mostly, it was just me. Recalling that now, how could I have been so self-involved with a man as accomplished as him?
On our way home to that hotel after that work day, he rode with me in my beat-up jeep, and I clearly remember the music playing on my stereo; it was a jazz version of Eric Clapton's 'Change The World'. And I am absolutely sure now that he was singing to the tune. Perhaps my recollection of that moment, and his days of retirement now, put together was this: we both want to 'change the world', in our own ways. Him, through his art, his nuggets of wisdom read between the lines of his comments and perspectives on my posts on social media, his drive to share the products of the little circuits lighted by rainbows playing in that brain of his. Me, by struggling day to day through the chaos of misunderstood or misguided people, trying bravely to gasp for air, just to get the work done.
Always, each time we bump into each other, he gives me this big, sweet bear hug. It is enough to let me know he is a friend, he is part of my life not just a mere presence, and that he loves me, as presumptuous as that may sound. He is not the peck-in-the-cheek type of guy. He gives warm embraces, and he is not the first one to let go. Now that he has retired, I think about the hugs, and I regret having been the first one to let go. He is a unique soul, one that gets to me, just be simply being who he is in his solitude, in his work, and with his family. Sometimes I do not understand what this world is all about, then I think about what he replied to one of my sarcastic remarks about that; he said, 'the world is not fair, Christianne'. He is right, really. For what fair world would conspire to make me always the first one to let go of that embrace?
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