LOST WORDS IN USA: A WRITER'S QUEST FOR INSPIRATION

 

There’s a strange kind of silence that settles in when a writer goes too long without writing. 

For the past three weeks, I’ve been a tourist, not a storyteller, and as much as I’ve savored every new experience, there’s been a gnawing emptiness I can’t ignore. Here I am, in the heart of Texas, surrounded by beauty and hospitality. Yet, a quiet restlessness lingers – an unspoken longing for the familiar rhythm of words flowing through my fingertips.

It’s in this silence that I am reminded: being a writer is not just something I do, it’s who I am.

As tourists in the United States, my wife Cher and I have been captivated by the experience. Our stay in the elegant home of Ed, our gracious and generous host in Allen, Texas, has been nothing short of extraordinary.

BFF & HS CLASSMATES

Left photo with Ed in front of his home

Right photo from left: Cher, Ray, bday boy Ed, & Bing's son, Gabby

Ed and I, best friends and high school classmates, reconnected in the Philippines after more than 50 years. He has returned many years earlier to marry his high school first love, Bing, during our high school grand reunion – a bittersweet yet heartwarming tale I detailed in my ATABAY article, 50 Years Later: Joy Of Reuniting With Classmates.

It was during that reunion that Ed and I first spoke of the possibility of my visiting the U.S. Now, that long-cherished dream has become a reality.

The accommodations Ed has provided are beyond anything we could have imagined. We are staying in a private guest room complete with an ensuite bathroom equipped with both hot and cold showers, conveniently located next to a physical fitness and game room. The kitchen, fully stocked, allows Cher to prepare our meals daily. In our free time, we indulge in the mini-theater and unwind by the pool.

But what Cher and I cherish most are our daily afternoon walks through the meticulously landscaped park, complete with four baseball fields, all nestled within the exclusive, gated community of Allen.

Attending Sunday service, grocery shopping, strolling in the park

Ed’s hospitality extends far beyond that of a typical host. On our first day, he took us to Walmart to purchase essentials – from towels to toiletries – and even stocked the refrigerator with groceries for our meals. He’s also gone out of his way to take us to delightful restaurants, treating us to exotic culinary experiences, despite his busy personal and professional schedule.

For our spiritual well-being, Ed has also invited us to attend Sunday worship service at his Southern Baptist Church, providing us with a fulfilling spiritual respite. As Catholics, we hear online Sunday Mass presided by Fr. Jerry Orbos after dinner in the privacy of our room.

Thanks to Ed’s extraordinary generosity, we feel not just like ordinary tourists but like honored guests in his home.

The First Great American Buy -- A Nail Cutter

SENSE OF INCOMPLETENESS

Yet despite the joy and serenity that this journey has brought, there lingers within me a quiet, persistent sense of incompleteness. The days have been filled with new sights and experiences, yet a part of me remains tethered to an unwritten world, waiting to emerge.  A stillness nags at me, a silence that demands to be broken.

Beyond being a tourist, I am, at my core, a writer – and for the past 23 days since Cher and I first set foot on American soil, my keyboard remained untapped, my thoughts unspoken. The once-flowing stream of creativity has been dammed, and in this unnatural silence, I feel a subtle void, a restlessness stirring deep within. Each day passes without writing feeds this disquiet, leaving a faint emptiness where words used to thrive.

It is a creative yearning that tugs gently but incessantly at my spirit, reminding me that my identity as a writer is more than a pastime or a profession. It is a calling that cannot be ignored, even in the most indulgent moments of peace or the most excruciating flare-up of conflict. Writing is not merely an action but a form of existence, and without it, a part of me feels suspended, waiting for a return to the familiar rhythm of creation.

Looking back, I wrote in my natal ATABAY article What’s In A Name?:

“To write or not to write, that’s the question I’d been dealing with after I got off from over two decades of blood, sweat, and tears in the corporate world. It’s not as existential a question as Hamlet’s To be or not to be since I love writing. But, where would I write? The answer: my blog, I am launching today.”

That was three years ago. ATABAY – that was the name I chose when I launched the blog on August 21, 2021. In that first article, I closed with these thoughts:

“I look forward to charm, not a fast reader who can’t put down a good book, but a slow reader who after reading a line, a paragraph, or a page, puts down a great book and reflects."

WORDS ARE ALL I HAVE

“I’m not naïve. In this day and age of hi-tech social media crazes like TikTok, Snapchat, and Instagram, what does an old-fashioned writer, like me, have to compete for viewer/reader attention? The answer is embedded in the lyrics of a Bee Gees’ song":

It’s only words and words are all I have to take your heart away.

Now, after publishing 294 blog posts covering a wide range of genres – personal essays, technological insights, political commentaries, travel writing – I find myself at a crossroads, unsure of which direction to take next. My dilemma is not a case of staring at a blank screen, cursor blinking in defiance, the ominous specter of writer’s block haunting me.

Writer’s block often mythologized as an impenetrable wall between thought and expression, is less about the absence of ideas and more about the fear of imperfection. It is that moment when the weight of expectations – self-imposed or otherwise – paralyzes creativity. The blinking cursor becomes an accusation, not of silence, but of the writer’s inability to translate the thoughts swirling inside into coherent form.

For some, it manifests as a dread of mediocrity, a hesitation to begin for fear that what emerges may not live up to the vision within. For others, it’s the simple inertia of starting, the blank page too vast and white, daring the writer to fill it. But perhaps, the most insidious form of writer’s block is the one disguised as waiting – for the perfect sentence, the perfect scene, the perfect moment.

Sometimes the best part of the story is the one you return to later, with fresh eyes and a clearer mind.

UNANSWERED QUESTION

My current challenge, however, feels less like that and more like an unanswered question, lingering in my mind without urgency. I trust answer will come – in seven weeks, seven months, or perhaps seven years. Until then, I will keep writing, knowing that sometimes the best part of the story is the one you return to later, with fresh eyes and a clearer mind.

Perhaps I need to do more research and dig deeper into the well of knowledge. Or maybe more contemplation is required, a quiet space to reflect and let the ideas brew. It might even come to me in the most unexpected moment, as often happens – in the shower or during a simple walk. But sooner or later, I trust that I will figure it out.

As I grapple with these uncertainties, I am reminded of a profound quote attributed to Ernest Hemingway:

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

In this simple, raw truth, I find solace. Writing isn’t about ease or perfection. It’s about honesty – about opening yourself to the page, no matter how difficult or incomplete it may feel. And in that, I find the courage to continue writing.

Feeling successful at Ed's office

Content and editing put together in collaboration with ChatGPT

Head collage photos courtesy of Redbubble, Wallpaper Cave, & Abstract Wallpapers and Backgrounds

USA, HERE WE COME! BELGIUM, AU REVOIR!

 

BELGIUM

September 1

Discovering Bruges

“This is the last city for us to visit.”

Mario’s words carried a sense of anticipation as if urging Cher and me to savor every moment of this final leg of our journey. It reminded me of the popular song’s title, Save the Best for Last. While Bruges might not boast the iconic allure of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, it certainly has held its unique charm.

From the moment we set foot in Bruges, it felt like we had been transported back in time. Often referred to as the Venice of the North, Bruges unfolded before us like a storybook, each chapter filled with the enchantment of centuries gone by. As a first-time visitor, I was immediately captivated by the charm of this medieval city. The cobblestone streets, winding canals, and ancient brick buildings seemed to whisper tales of history deeply etched into every corner.

Our exploration began in the heart of Bruges, at the bustling Market Square. Standing amidst this grand plaza, we were enveloped by magnificent Gothic architecture, including the iconic Belfry Tower that loomed above, casting a long shadow over the lively marketplace below. The tower’s melodic chimes filled the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the rhythmic clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages.

Fairy-Tale Town

We meandered toward the canals, where Mario decided we should take a boat tour. The gentle sway of the boat and the soothing sound of water lapping against the stone embankments were calming. As we glided through the canals, our guide painted vivid pictures with his words, recounting stories of Bruges’ illustrious past as a thriving trading hub in the Middle Ages.

We floated beneath low-arched stone bridges, their surfaces smoothed by centuries of passage. The reflections of the gabled houses danced on the water’s surface, their vibrant hues and intricate facades blending seamlessly with the clear blue sky above. It was easy to see why this place is often described as a fairy-tale town.

Mario then led us to the Basilica of the Holy Blood. Inside, dim light filtered through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floors. In a small chapel to the side, a line of devout visitors waited to venerate a crystal vial said to contain a few drops of Christ’s blood. The atmosphere was thick with reverence, and I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of awe I marveled at the intricacy of the church’s décor – the vibrant paintings, the golden altarpiece – each element telling a story of deep devotion and unwavering faith.

We later found ourselves in a quaint, family-owned café tucked away on a side street. While sipping cola, I was caught off guard when a man at a nearby table struck up a conversation with me. “Philippines?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. He then spoke in a language I couldn’t understand, so I quickly introduced him to Mario, who fluently spoke Dutch.

Mario later recounted the man’s story to me. His parents had separated when he was just a child. He had a Belgian father and, as he was led to believe, a Vietnamese mother. At 36, while serving in the army, he found out that his mother was, in fact, Filipina. He embarked on a journey to the Philippines, seeking the truth, and there he found his mother’s roots – relatives, friends, and a community. Sadly, he never came upon his Filipino mother. Since then, he has harbored a special fondness for any Filipino he meets. His unusual eagerness to speak with me made perfect sense.

Our visit to Bruges was more than a sightseeing tour; it was a journey through time, a deep dive into a rich tapestry of history, culture, and beauty. As we drove out of the city, we carried with us memories of a place where time seems to stand still, where every corner holds a story waiting to be discovered, and where the past and present exist in perfect harmony.

September 3

A Poem Of Gratitude

(Dedicated to our hosts, Mario and Merlita)

From distant shores of the Philippines we came,

Drawn by your kindness, your love’s bright flame.

To Belgium’s heart, with open arms,

You welcomed us, with endless charms.

Avelgem’s old farmhouse, four centuries grand,

Became our home, in a foreign land,

A private room, a warm, soft bed,

Sumptuous meals with which we're fed.

Through Brussels’ streets and Ghent’s old walls,

To Bruges’ canals and Frankenberge’s shore,

You guided us through places old and new,

With a heart so generous, and spirit true.

To Lourdes, France, you took us far,

In your trusty Captiva, our guiding star.

Through a thousand kilometers, without a rest,

You showed us sights, the world’s very best.

And when the time came for an utmost glee,

To Paris we went, to the tower so stately

You gave us a moment, timeless and sweet,

A grand adventure, our eager heart’s beats.

Dear Mario, dear Merlita, your gift was vast,

A treasure of memories, forever to last.

In every journey, in every view,

We found a piece of joy, thank to both of you.

So here we stand, with hearts full of praise,

Grateful for your love, your generous ways.

May God bless you always, free of strife,

For all the joy you brought to our life.

Epilogue

This is the last travel article I put together here in Belgium. My next ATABAY article I will piece together, by God’s grace, in Texas, where Cher and I will fly on Friday, September 6, to see our daughter, Jan Kristy and her family.

Belgium, au revoir!

US of A, here we come!

Content and editing put together in collaboration with ChatGPT

Head collage photos courtesy of Depositphotos, Pexels, Shutterstock, & istock.

A DAY AT FLEA MARKET AND UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL ENCOUNTERS

 

Avelgem BELGIUM

August 31

A Day At The Avelgem Flea Market

Cher and I were fortunate to experience two remarkable events during our over three-week vacation in Belgium. One was the Flower Carpet -- a biennial celebration in Brussels that takes place every other August lasting for three to four days. The other one was the Avelgem flea market, a charming community event we attended today.

As stalls lined the streets, the air buzzed with the excitement of discovery. We wandered past tables laden with vintage clothing -- delicate lace dresses and tailored suits whispering secrets of past owners -- their elegance, timeless. Handmade crafts beckoned from the next stalls: intricate jewelry, hand-carved wooden toys, and vibrant potteries. Pastries, cakes, cheese, chocolates, and confections showcased the talent and creativity of local artisans. I marveled at the skill involved in each piece, appreciating the hours of labor and love poured into them.

One thrilling attraction was a seatbelt safety demonstration. Secured by a seatbelt, an enthusiast was invited to sit in the driver’s seat of an elevated car. The vehicle was rotated multiple times. After several rotations, it stopped, and the volunteer passenger emerged safe and sound. I was invited to participate but declined due to my innate motion sickness – especially after seeing the volunteer passenger’s disconcerted face.

I caught a glimpse of home appliances such as TVs, as well as electric bikes, put on display on the street fronting the business establishments along the block.

In the late afternoon, a live concert featuring a local celebrity kicked off while tables and chairs on the street were filled with locals and visitors sipping coffee or drinking beers.

As we continued exploring the market, the aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, leading us to an ice cream kiosk. Savoring the pistachio flavor, I watched the bustling crowd around us -- families strolling together, children’s laughter mingling with the hum of conversation. It was a scene of simple joy and community.

"Nothing spectacular," Mario commented at the end of the day in the light of our recent trip to Paris.

But, more than just a place to buy and sell, the Avelgem flea market was a celebration of craftsmanship and human connection. As we drove home, I knew I would carry the memories of this day with me -- a reminder of the beauty found in the heart of Avelgem.

Unexpected Visitors

I was typing away on my laptop at the dining table when Mario opened the main door and invited two visitors inside. He introduced them to me as Joshua, thirty-two, and Liam, sixteen, both Jehovah’s Witnesses missionaries. They handed me a card as I introduced Cher and myself as Catholics visiting Belgium, invited by Mario.

Given my recent encounters with numerous demolished Catholic churches in Belgium, I was surprised and delighted by the presence and mission of these young God’s workers. We found common spiritual ground despite our different religious beliefs.

As we concluded our conversation, I challenged the young duo with a parting thought: “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few.” There are many houses to visit and people to talk to about God. I pointed them, with a smile, to Mario, who happened to have no religion.

Up Close And Personal

What lingered in my mind, however, was a recent conversation with Paul, a typical senior in Belgian society, during one of our rare stopovers with Mario’s circle of friends. I recall and reflect on part of that extraordinary conversation below:

ME: “Paul, do you believe in God?”

PAUL: “No. I don’t believe in God…”

Paul elaborated that he rejected the belief in a God who created the universe but did not interfere with it. He criticized traditional religious views that portray God as an authoritarian figure, far removed from human concerns and daily life. Mario echoed Paul’s views during our tour of historic and grand, but empty cathedrals, saying, “In those times, the church was too rich and grand, while the people were very needy. Why, Raymond?”

PAUL: “I believe in what is written in the Bible. I believe in Jesus Christ as a good man.”

ME: “I’m glad to hear that, Paul. It is also written in the Bible that Jesus claimed he is the Son of God…”

I then shared, in a gentle and conversational tone, the essence of C.S. Lewis classic quote:

“Either [Jesus Christ] was, and is, the son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher [or a good man]. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

ME: “Paul, 1 in 3 people, or roughly 2.4 billion worldwide, believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”

PAUL: “A large group of people can believe in something wrong, like in Hitler’s case.”

ME: “God is so great He gives us the freedom to think and act, not just to be like robots. We call it ‘free will’…”

I explained that God grants us the ability to make our own choices – a freedom that allows us to choose to love and follow God voluntarily, rather than being compelled to do so. This emphasizes a relationship based on love and choice rather than coercion.

I added that free will clarifies the presence of evil and suffering in the world. Since we can choose our actions, we can also choose to do wrong, like in Hitler’s case.

ME: “Paul, I’m glad you believe what is written in the Bible.”

I paraphrased Jesus’ promise in the Bible: “My Father’s house has many rooms… And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14:2-3)

ME: “The afterlife differentiates those who believe in God from those who don’t. And this difference shapes our lives here and now on earth – we hope in eternal life.”

At this point, our discussion amicably ended.

Content and editing put together in collaboration with Microsoft Bing AI-powered Co-pilot

Head photo courtesy of Alamy