Where is home?
Home can be many places, can mean many things and is called by
many names. It is ambiguous and fluid, shaping itself to fit the
definition of the person who calls it by its name. To most, home
may be a nice tidy house tucked away in a quiet subdivision. To
many, home is a lofty condominium over-looking the vast city sky
line. To me, home is the fields.
Home is the sugarcane, and dazzling yellow sunsets, and
mountains and rivers, and farmers with their beasts of burden
in tow. Home is a lush green landscape filled with a patchwork
of brown and green fields as seen from above. Home is a city
of smiles, a festival of masks, a place where everyone knows
everyone and a land where life is sweet. Home is Negros. Home is
Bacolod. Home is where my heart is.
Can a Home Have a Secret?
Every home has a secret, something they keep away from prying
eyes. Something hidden under cupboards, or stacked away in
trunks tightly locked. Though some of these secrets may be dark
and horrid, most are simply treasures. Treasures that the owners
would steal away from humanity, hiding them from eyes and hands
that may seek to besmirch the saintliness of the thing.
My home has many of these secrets… but it is not selfish. It
does not care to hide these secrets, rather it shares them on
one condition. You must seek; only then you shall find.
Bacolod is beautiful. Negros is divine. We are lucky spirits to
have been so readily summoned into paradise. Though many may
contest this statement, it is true. We need only stray from
the beaten path to find the gems that our home has hidden from
us. Like a newborn fresh from the womb, we must open our eyes
and allow our feet to take us where they will for it is not the
destination, but the journey that is our reward.