Since I got back from Ohio, more than two months ago now, my days have been running consistently along the lines of the daily family life we've formed into a tradition: Up about 5:30. A quick snack. (Maybe a banana or two.) Fill the water bottle and we're off.
With Shane in the basket behind me, sitting on a folded towel for comfort, I hop on my bike and we ride north for 5 miles, through the small settlements that run along the road, close to the sea. Most of this part of the world is awake and getting ready for school or work or cleaning their yards and burning leaves. Almost everyone smiles and says "Maayong buntag!" Good morning!
There is something very satisfying about this regular and predictable lifestyle, like listening to my heartbeat.
Shane chatters excitedly the whole way, in English, and about everything she sees: the ocean (her ocean), the cows, pigs, goats, carabaw, birds, snakes, banana trees, coconut trees, people she sees and on and on. All belong to her.
"Where's my snake, hon hon?"
The snake has been dead and gone for weeks but she stills asks about it.
"Look hon, a cat! I want to pet the cat! That's my momma cat."
"Where's the kitten, hon?"
Every cat is either "momma", "poppa" or "kitten", and every adult has a baby.
"I want bread, hon hon."
This morning, as we approach the town of Malabuyoc, I see my friend Alejandro, who owns a herd of goats and takes them to feed where the grass is green and long, a short ways from his house and along the coastal road. We stop and chat for a while. I speak to Alejandro in a combination of Cebuano and English. He is patient with me as he listens and corrects when necessary, without condescension.
His largest goat is a young billy, and very friendly. Shane sits on his back while I hold her. Alejandro is 88. Shane calls him lolo: grandfather. When I am chatting comfortably with Alejandro, I always feel like I'm talking with someone I've known longer than I've been alive.
After saying goodbye, we ride back home but make several stops along the way so Shane can get a closer look at whatever grabs her attention. For me, bike riding with her is a great way to relax and connect with my little girl, giving her the attention she wants, and sharing in her delight as she moves from one small-but-enormous adventure to another.
A final stop at the mom-and-pop bakery for coconut bread, then home: about 6:45AM. There is still time for Shane to bathe, eat and get ready for her two hours of daycare at the barangay hall, just down the street.
I take her to school in the tricycle or the bike, or we walk. If walking, we stop for a few minutes in the cemetery. Shane has been talking - a lot lately - about death and the cemetery, and especially about her grandmother (lola), who died many years ago and who she has never known.
The residents are quiet. They listen respectfully to a little girl trying to work out a concept of life and death. I do the same kind of listening, keeping my ears tuned to a child whose questions may just be more enlightening than the stock answers I've been taught and have repeated as truth since I was a child.
These moments are precious, as I watch the blooming of this little flower and experience the irony of this moment, in this place of death.
It's just another day, filled with the golden nuggets of time that children catch and make meaningful, with their magic.
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