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HONORING MY MOTHER | Still Waters

 

 

 

I REMEMBER when we were kids, my mom and some of her friends would, for a time, bring us to Mulig, in the Toril District, for a day of swimming in a mountain stream.

At least for myself, those few occasions had been unforgettable; with the feel of being in a fast stream, wherein most parts, were huge boulders that one could squeeze through.

Even today, I always remember the area as being one of my favorite childhood playgrounds ever. I didn’t know about my brothers, but I always looked forward to the time when my mom would say we were going back again.

While the rapids in some parts of that particular stream were scary, the adults had always seen to it that we were always on the safe side.

I recall that in some of those parts, one could feel fist-sized rocks roll and hit our legs, as proof of the strong flow. Once in a while for those of our age, we would still try out going through some of the scary sections of that stream, sliding down some flat boulders, ala body surfing in today’s lingo, and eventually landing in neck-deep water.

However, though back then, that proved to be the main thrill for us boys, my best part would be swimming (or more like gliding down toward shallow waters beyond the rocks, to float for a brief rest.

In a nutshell, we could say that practically life is so much like that. Encapsulated in one childhood memory. While youth is always marked and dotted with a mix of wide-eyed exploration, it is nevertheless replete with a lot of significantly daring and maverick deeds in order to prove oneself.

Although there would have been telling moments when one resorted to tiptoeing here and there, one’s youthful existence would mostly be described as rushing ever onward unafraid of consequences.

When it’s over, only you know it. It’s never marked with the number of lines in one’s face or the slow dominance of white hair on one’s head. For others, the loss of hair doesn’t even qualify as the end of youth either.

Still, like being one with the rapids in a fast flowing stream, there is always that stage where one begins to seek the quiet side of the noisy waters. It is almost always, a special spot where one could just float and watch the sky above. The appeal of this grows stronger with each day and it is almost as welcoming as a friend one is fond of.

For others especially those in the middle generation, they call it the “tito” years, a mellowing of sorts, from being young and turning into an uncle. What name, I’m curious now, would seniors like us call this inevitable stage of mellowing? I don’t know about you oldies out there, I am calling it still waters.






Without any referenc
The exact location now escapes me, but I have been told

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