Walking in Grace: A Journey of Faith, Friendship, and Self-Discovery

There we were, four friends in our seventies, embarking on the Camino de Santiago—a pilgrimage that promised more than just miles underfoot. Our journey became a tapestry of song, prayer, and profound connections that deepened our bond with each other, ourselves, and the world around us.

Bursting into Song and Prayer

From Brother Sun and Sister Moon to The Sound of Music, we often burst into song, though our memories sometimes faltered. Thankfully, someone could usually dredge up the forgotten lyrics between the four of us.

The Path. Copyright: aesta1

One evening, we stayed in a beautiful hotel with a chapel that inspired us to pray Lauds and Vespers. Freed from the constraints of routine, our spirits soared, finding expression in heartfelt prayer. Before we started our walk, our Camino organizer, “Marly Camino,” gave us envelopes containing meaningful words. We would draw one at night, reflect on its significance, and share our thoughts—a practice that led to deep, inward journeys. Though we’d known each other for 50 years, this pilgrimage allowed us to share on a level we hadn’t before.

We always ended these evenings with a night prayer, setting the tone for the next day.

Preparing for the Challenges Ahead

Mornings began with rituals to prepare ourselves for the road ahead: preparing our feet, stretching our bodies, and bracing for another walk through rain and mud. We coated our toes with Vaseline, doubled our socks (one with separate toes, the other anti-blister), and miraculously avoided blisters—even in daily downpours.

Luckily, there was always a café with clean bathrooms along the way—a small mercy that made the rain bearable.

We each carried a stone, symbolic of the burdens we wanted to release. At Finisterre, the “end of the world,” we cast these stones into the ocean, watching them disappear into the waves—a powerful act of cleansing and renewal.

Arriving in the Cathedral

Finding Meaning in Every Step

On the first rainy day, one of us turned and asked, “Remind me again, why are we doing this?” That question sparked a tradition: choosing a word of the day to give meaning to our experiences.

One of us documented the journey, sharing updates with friends who cheered us on from afar. Their prayers and messages of encouragement became part of our pilgrimage, a reminder that we were never walking alone.

Our walking sticks’ rhythmic “tok, tok, tok” accompanied us through muddy paths. These sticks became extensions of ourselves, steadying us mile after mile.

The Steady Presence of a Guide

Our driver, Nico, was more than a chauffeur; he was a lifeline. Each morning, he discussed the route with us, though he soon realized only one of us was listening. He adjusted his plans, walking toward us if we were late to meeting points, offering relief and assurance that there was an end in sight.

His care went beyond logistics. He adjusted hats that obstructed vision, discouraged choking hazards like chicharrón, and kept us stocked with water and snacks. His presence reminded us we were cared for, even on the most challenging days.

Joys Along the Way

The Camino wasn’t all challenges. We delighted in simple pleasures, like the perfectly cooked scallops and octopus in Melide, where the flavours of the sea spoke for themselves. We marvelled at the unique flora—figs, chestnuts, and other unfamiliar vegetation—and the hórreos, storages on stone stilts, a distinctive feature of Galician homes.

Each step brought joys and pains, but more importantly, it brought us closer to who we truly are. The rain washed away more than mud—it cleansed us of burdens, real and imagined. By the last day, I felt a deep joy, a lightness in my steps, and a newness in my spirit.

Returning Home, Continuing the Journey

Back home, the Camino’s lessons lingered. A chance meeting with a young couple from a country where my late husband and I once lived brought new friendships. Losing my keys became an opportunity for my grandson to show his care, and a kind concierge reminded me of the interconnectedness of humanity.

The Camino taught me that people are not burdens; they are gifts. Each connection, each shared moment, is part of life’s more significant journey. Though the walking has ended, the spirit of the Camino continues, moving me to deeper connections and a renewed appreciation for life’s simple graces.

How I Learned to Claim My Inner Power

It took me a long time to realize that the way I moved through life wasn’t really me. It was a version shaped by my upbringing—quietly, invisibly, and very powerfully.

Second Bloom. Copyright: aesta1

For years, I felt tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the deep, bone-level exhaustion that comes from constantly managing yourself around others. I didn’t know where it came from. I just thought, This is life.

Until one ordinary afternoon in my senior years in changed everything.

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The Moment I Finally Asked “Why?”

I was on my way to do the laundry when I suddenly felt overwhelmed and muttered, “I’m so tired.”

I’d said those words countless times before, but this time I paused.

My husband had once asked me, “You didn’t really do anything today—why are you so tired?”

That question stayed with me. Where was this exhaustion coming from?

The answer surprised me: it began with being the second child.

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Living as “The Second One”

My sister came first—beautiful, admired, and naturally noticed. I came next and quietly learned to take up less space. I didn’t know it then, but I carried that feeling for decades: Don’t stand out. Don’t fall behind. Don’t be second again.

So I worked hard. I achieved. I succeeded—on the outside.

Inside, I was constantly bracing myself. In conversations, I scanned for slights. In groups, I held back. When I felt unimportant, I left—jobs, commitments, even relationships. Leaving felt safer than risking that old, familiar ache.

I looked successful, but I was exhausted. Life felt heavy. Joy was rare.

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The Shift That Changed Everything

Loving my husband helped—but it didn’t erase my old patterns. I still tried too hard to be appreciated. And I grew even more tired.

The real change came when I turned inward.

I started listening—not just to my mind, which was loud and anxious—but to my heart. And my heart was quiet, steady, and honest. It always knew the truth, even when I ignored it.

So I began making different choices. I spoke honestly. I stopped pretending. I allowed myself to be seen—even when it felt uncomfortable.

Something incredible happened.

I stopped feeling tired.

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What Life Feels Like Now

I’m more open. More present. More me.

A small moment confirmed this recently. A neighbor shared how someone she’d been avoiding had ruined her day with a phone call. Without thinking, I said, “Why are you giving her that much power? Take it back. This is your life.”

It came out strong—but it landed. A young woman in the group jumped in, sharing her own wisdom about reclaiming personal power. Suddenly, everyone was reflecting, laughing, and opening up.

That’s when I realized: this is what living from your true self looks like. Honest. Energized. Alive.

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A Thought for You

You may have your own tools, your own path inward. Keep going.

Your true self is always speaking—through your feelings, your discomfort, your quiet knowing. When you listen and act from that place, something shifts.

This kind of truth is powerful. More powerful than approval, success, or perfection.

It’s the power of finally saying, This is my life—and I choose to live it as myself.

Joy of Expression

Expression. Copyright: aesta1

As Seniors, we find various ways of expressing ourselves. Each of us has a unique way of saying who we are—some whisper it, some paint it, some dance it, and some just let it slip out accidentally during small talk. But art… art is where expression finally takes form. It arrives in all kinds of incarnations: some sublime, some questionable, and some that make you wonder whether the artist was sleep-deprived or simply inspired. Yet the expressions that give us the most joy are the ones that carry beauty, goodness, authenticity, angst, or whatever life insists on handing us.

Expressing the Inner Spirit

Lately, I’ve devoted more time to art, and I can’t begin to explain the exhilaration of creating something that feels true, something that speaks from the soul. It goes beyond taste, beyond sight, beyond touch. It’s as if something inside waits—rather impatiently—to be given words, to be painted, to be played, to finally step out and show its face.

On the Periphery

For years, I lingered on the outskirts of art. I walked through galleries, museums, performances—happy to admire the brilliance of others while clutching my own creativity like a secret passport I never stamped. I dabbled here and there, mostly for my work in education, but never truly allowed myself to plunge in.

Until recently. One day, after decades of circling like a shy satellite, I finally picked up my brushes, spread out the paper I’d been hoarding (as all good artists-in-denial do), and jumped.

The plunge felt like the first swim in a cold Canada lake—lots of hesitation, then a shocking jolt of aliveness. And then… bliss. I became hooked. I forgot to eat. I forgot to be bored. I forgot to be lonely. I even stopped minding the clean-up, which in my personal universe counts as a minor miracle. Somehow, I became more organized; I could pause, take a walk, tidy up for visitors—and then fall right back into the flow.

Art didn’t just become something I did. It became part of who I am. And like a composer giving birth to a long-awaited symphony, I realized: this expression had been gestating for years. But the time doesn’t matter now. What matters is that it finally came to life—my joy, my offering, my small gift to the universe.

An Ode to Expression

The joy found words. It found poetry. Something deep within me stirred awake, and suddenly, the verses came—softly, insistently, like a child tugging on your sleeve at dawn. I now wake up excited to create, like a toddler discovering new toys, except my toys involve paper, ink, and an unreasonable number of brushes.

Here is what rose from within:

Life, thou hast been

In my womb forever,

Waiting to awaken

To the world of the keen.

Life, what beauty

You bring to me

On this particular day

Of my awakening to me.

Gratefully I sing

The canticle to thee—

Of art and beauty

That life does be.

Gone is hesitation,

Onward I go.

Lost for a long time,

Now found—and lo.

Words of complaint,

That time there were none.

Space couldn’t be found,

Obstacles now gone.

To thee I bow,

To your long vigil,

Till the soul awakens

And opens its heart.

The Inner Beauty

Inside each of us is an inner self longing to step out into the light—full, radiant, unfiltered. We catch glimpses of it now and then, usually in the quiet spaces between errands or in the five minutes before sleep claims us. For years, I was busy with life, with goals, with what I thought were the shiny trappings of success. I gave myself to them completely. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a small voice kept whispering: There is something more.

Finally, I listened. Finally, I expressed it.

The joy it brings surpasses all my past achievements—not because it’s grand or public, but because it is mine. Personal. Essential. Whole.

Maybe this is what truly matters. Maybe it takes decades to discover. I can’t say I understand it fully, but I know the feeling of it now—this quiet wholeness, this sense of being at one with myself.

And that, too, is a kind of masterpiece.

Breaking Up with Fear: My New Love Affair with Courage

An old nun I dearly love once leaned in close and whispered a single word into my ear just as I was standing on the edge of one of the biggest decisions of my life: Courage.

At the time, her words wrapped around me like a warm blanket, comforting, but not quite taken seriously. For years, I tucked that word away like a keepsake—something to take out and admire occasionally but never really use. Only recently have I realized just how powerful that one whispered word was. It wasn’t just advice; it was a key. A key to unlock a door I’d been too scared to even knock on. My only regret is that I didn’t take it to heart sooner.

Looking back, I see that fear was the invisible thread that ran through every choice I made. Fear of failing, fear of being judged, fear of messing up spectacularly—or even just a little bit. It was all too easy to let fear call the shots. But last night, I watched The Wrecked Life… it felt more like my life story, honestly), and like Agathe, I realized I’d spent too much of my time holding back, waiting, bracing for disaster. And as a result, I never really lived.

These days, though, I’ve decided enough is enough. I’m not letting fear have the remote control of my life anymore. And surprise, surprise—life is actually a lot more fun this way! I’ve stopped going out with friends out of obligation, and now I go because I genuinely enjoy it. Even the simple things, like cleaning the house, have become… well, I won’t say thrilling, but at least mildly amusing. (Seriously, who knew that mopping the floor to a dance playlist could be so satisfying?) Just watch my 75 year old friends do it!

I’m even getting used to this strange, relaxed version of myself. For years, I carried tension in every muscle, like I was preparing for an earthquake that never came. Now, it feels like I’ve traded that twisted, stressed-out body for something far more comfortable—and I’m learning to settle into it, like breaking in a new pair of shoes.

And driving! Once upon a time, the thought of heavy traffic gave me cold sweats and sleepless nights. But now? I see traffic jams as a chance to practice patience (and to catch up on my favorite podcasts). It’s no longer something to dread—it’s just another part of the adventure.

So here’s to courage. To finally letting go of fear. To stepping fully into life, even if it means dancing with a mop or singing in traffic.

Senior in the Soil: My Joyful Life on a Hectare of Paradise

I live on a hectare of land—my little slice of paradise and a warm escape from Canada’s icy, slippery winter wonderland.

As a senior, I’ve learned that snow and ice don’t mix well with me (or my hips). So, here I am, turning this plot of land into a lush garden that’s slowly becoming the envy of, well, mostly just me, but it’s quite the masterpiece in progress.

Flowering Jazmine Tree. Copyright:aesta1

My hectare is a delightful patchwork of flowers, fruit trees, and vegetable beds. One part blooms with vibrant colours, while the other grows the vegetables that keep me fed and feeling virtuous about my food choices. Freshness is the name of the game here. There’s nothing like biting into a sun-warmed tomato or crunching on a cucumber straight off the vine. It’s like nature whispers, “See? This is how veggies are supposed to taste!”

Beans Growing in My Garden. Copyright: aesta1

We also keep a few chickens—not just for their eggs but because they’re fantastic little composters who love munching on leftovers. They strut around like they own the place, occasionally “borrowing” a bit of fruit or a veggie. I think they’re plotting to overthrow me, but I let it slide.

Of course, this garden doesn’t run itself. Enter my dream team: Romeo and Sam, the hardworking gardeners who keep everything thriving, and Jazmin, our innovation guru. She’s like the garden’s mad scientist, whipping up organic sprays and fertilizers that keep pests away without making the plants feel too “chemically.”

The Priceless Joy of Gardening

Let me be clear: this garden is not a money-making venture. It’s the opposite. I pour in more money than I get back. But can you put a price on the joy of plucking fresh vegetables for breakfast or wandering among fruit trees with a steaming cup of coffee in hand? For me, this is living.

Every morning, I gear up like I’m heading into battle: gloves on, basket in hand, cutter ready, and coffee firmly in my grasp. I stroll through my garden, saying hello to the plants, inspecting the squash flowers (are you male or female today?), and ensuring everything grows as it should. I’ve even started building more raised beds for better yields and experimenting with planting in pots. Why? Because I can and love seeing my neighbours scratch their heads and ask, “What’s she up to now?”

Video of Cucumbers Growing in My Garden

A Garden That Connects

Last year, I started this journey but had to leave halfway when I returned to Canada. It’s hard to garden long-distance, even with modern technology. You can get photos and videos, but nothing beats being here. There’s magic in touching the soil, smelling the herbs, and hearing the chickens cluck disapprovingly at your every move.

My hectare is more than just a garden. It’s my playground, sanctuary, and reminder that life can still be full of new beginnings, even as I grow older. The joy it brings me—watching tiny seeds grow into plants, feeding both body and soul—is priceless.

So here I am, cultivating not just fruits and vegetables but also happiness and a sense of purpose. Every day is a new adventure, whether figuring out how to outsmart a mischievous chicken or discovering a hidden zucchini the size of a baseball bat. Life on my hectare? It’s more rewarding (and hilarious) than I ever imagined.

Dancing Through Time: The Story of Petronila

Seniors Dance

The Spry Old Lady

In the quaint town of Cabatuan, nestled in the heart of the Philippines, a remarkable woman named Petronila, affectionately known as Petro, defied the passage of time and the limitations that often accompany age. At 96, she was a living testament to vitality, her spirit as fierce and lively as that of a 60-year-old.

Despite her years, Petro thrived in her semi-remote barrio, a short 15-minute journey from the town’s bustling center.Retired from a lifetime of teaching, Petro remained deeply connected to her community.

The joy of education was not the only thing she brought to her life; it was the social interactions she cherished. Every week, she joined local seniors for gatherings, enthusiastically participating in energetic dances like the cha-cha, twist, and even the lively limbo rock. Her laughter mingled with the music, creating a harmony that resonated through the small gathering spaces.

A few times, I happened upon her at wakes, especially those honoring fellow teachers. While many of her contemporaries arrived accompanied by caregivers or family, Petro walked in alone, exuding an independence that was as admirable as it was intriguing. Her presence illuminated the somber atmosphere, a spark of life in a world clouded by loss.

But one fateful day, whispers floated through the town like the wind. Petro had fallen while navigating the uneven footpaths leading to her home, a precarious balance that had become more challenging with age. Rumors of her declining health traveled fast, and a wave of concern swept through the community.

The Visit

On a bright Monday morning, my sister turned to me with an idea sprouted from her caring heart. “Let’s go visit Petro,” she announced with determination. I felt a mixture of curiosity and concern swell within me; the lady whose resilience captivated me now needed support, and I couldn’t resist the pull of her story.

“Let’s call Bro Caloy,” my sister suggested, referencing our tricycle-driving neighbor who was frequently enlisted for such errands. He was a devoted member of her church — a good man not without his flaws.

Caloy bore an air of arrogance that often distracted from his kindhearted nature, a mask for the inferiority complex that lingered just beneath the surface. His strong personality sometimes bordered on rudeness, a reflection of battles he fought internally.

Growing up, my father often extended his help to young men in the community, offering them jobs in his business to steer them toward a better path. In this spirit, we had taken Caloy under our wings as well.

He owned a dilapidated tricycle, characteristically unlicensed — a burden of registration fees he couldn’t quite manage. But his efforts, however flawed, were commendable, and I respected his resilience.As we hopped into his tricycle, the air filled with anticipation and a hint of trepidation. I was eager to learn about Petro’s world, the labyrinth of experiences woven into her 96 years, and uncover the secrets of her unwavering spirit.

Under the Mango Tree

Arriving at Petro’s home felt like stepping into a different era. Her little house, adorned with vibrant flowers and a few scattered mango trees, stood as a sentinel of her dedicated life.

The damp earth emitted a fresh scent, mingling with the soft rustling of leaves above us — a tranquil realm away from the weighty concerns of the outside world.Petro greeted us at the door, her smile bright against the wrinkles of her wise, sun-kissed face. Though she leaned slightly on a cane, her posture remained poised, radiating warmth and hospitality.

“Welcome, my dear!” she said, her voice rich with affection. “I have missed the laughter of dear friends.”Once inside, we settled ourselves among the treasured memorabilia scattered throughout her small living room — old photographs of students, faded diplomas, and frames holding memories of dances that once captured her vibrant spirit.

As flows of conversation started, I felt a bond forming not just between us but with the stories etched in her walls.

The Power of Connection

Petro began to share tales of her life — her recollections of teaching in Cabatuan, the joy of inspiring young minds, and the friendships she forged along the way. She spoke about the fervor of youth, the vibrancy in her community, and how her passion for education had intertwined with her identity.

“Life is a dance,” she asserted with a smile. “And I love to cha-cha my way through it!” Her laughter resonated, infectious and inviting. It twisted through the air like music, a reminder that age did not diminish one’s vitality; instead, it could amplify it if one allowed joy to lead.

As I listened, I realized that Petro’s strength lay in something deeper than just her sprightly nature. It was her ability to adapt, to embrace change, whether through loss or joy, and still reach out to others. In a world fragmented by age and decline, Petro was a living testament to the unseen threads that connect our lives.

A Community’s Heartbeat

Our visit became a ritual of sorts after that day. Each week, my sister and I would return to Petro’s home, bringing conversations, laughter, and stories of our own lives. Bro Caloy, despite his bristly exterior, found warmth in Petro’s company too. Together, we formed an unusual trio, united by the joy of shared moments.

Through our visits, we learned about the challenges Petro faced; the footpath that wound to her home seemed more daunting with each passing day. But she never complained, and every time we saw her dance, it was as if the worries of the world faded away.

The town of Cabatuan, once limited by its size, grew larger in our hearts as we connected with its history through Petro. We learned about her struggles, her joys, and the love she bore for her students, many of whom still sought her guidance on occasion, respecting the lessons learned long ago.

The Legacy of Joy

Months passed, and the seasons turned. Petro’s legs became weary, but her vibrant spirit never dimmed. The rhythm of her life continued, perhaps a little slower but no less lived. She taught us lessons not inscribed in textbooks but written in the way one embraces life, regardless of age.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, casting golden hues across Cabatuan, Petro looked at us and said, “Never forget, my dears, that life is a celebration. Dance with joy, and you will find the strength to face any challenge.”

As we laughed and danced beneath the mango trees, I understood that Petro would remain a beacon not just for the elderly but for anyone seeking inspiration. The tiny town of Cabatuan was rich with stories, but none so enlightening and powerful as that of Petronila, a woman who danced through life, undeterred by time.

New Year, Same Annoyances: When Gratitude Gets on Your Nerves

Ah, New Year’s—the season of resolutions, gratitude lists, and the slow, creeping realization that you’re annoyed by absolutely everything. This year, I took the well-meaning advice of all those inspirational quotes on Instagram: “Be grateful. Focus on the positive.” And so, I did.

Ah, New Year’s—the season of resolutions, gratitude lists, and the slow, creeping realization that you’re annoyed by absolutely everything. This year, I took the well-meaning advice of all those inspirational quotes on Instagram: “Be grateful. Focus on the positive.” And so, I did.

I made my gratitude list. It started simple enough: health, family, friends. But then, as I sat there basking in my supposed positivity, an unwelcome guest barged into the room—my inner annoyance.

Why do my friends always copy what I order at restaurants? Is it some culinary stalking? Why can’t they appreciate fine dining or, heaven forbid, try something new? And let’s not even get started on my classmates from high school—people who once aced math tests alongside me but now seem blissfully ignorant of basic facts. As for my sister, who can’t figure out how to use her phone. Honestly, how is this even my problem?

Suddenly, my gratitude list had turned into a laundry list of grievances. I wasn’t focusing on the good; I was fixated on the frustrating. Gratitude was supposed to bring me peace, but all it did was shine a spotlight on the small, ridiculous things that were driving me up the wall.

So, I had no choice but to confront myself. “Where is this coming from?” I asked as if I were the protagonist of some introspective indie film. The answer? Crickets. My brain was as helpful as a GPS with no signal.

Frustrated, I thought, “Maybe if I stop thinking, I’ll feel better.” Spoiler: I didn’t. The thoughts just kept coming, like uninvited guests at a party.

Finally, I gave up. I stopped trying to “fix” my mood, forcing gratitude or hunting for solutions. I just sat there, doing nothing. And you know what? That helped.

Because sometimes, the answer isn’t another list, another self-help mantra, or another round of overthinking. Sometimes, the answer is to just be—to let the thoughts come and go without trying to wrestle them into submission.

So, here’s my New Year’s wisdom: Annoyance’s okay. It’s okay to feel stuck. And it’s okay to do absolutely nothing about it for a while. Life will keep moving, and eventually, so will you.

And who knows? Maybe the next time your friend orders the same dish as you, you’ll just shrug and laugh. Or maybe you’ll roll your eyes. Either way, it’s fine. Happy New Year.

Christmas in the Philippines: Lights, Laughter, and Limbo Rock Seniors

Christmas is a magical time of year—a season bursting with joy, connection, and traditions. It’s a time for family celebrations, reunions with friends, and enough food to make Santa reconsider his diet. This year, I’m in the Philippines for Christmas, and let me tell you: nobody does Christmas like the Filipinos. Between the glittering lights, endless parties, and town-wide competitions for the most extravagant decorations, it’s a holiday on steroids.

Iloilo Provincial Capitol Lights

The Seniors Take Center Stage

When I say everyone celebrates here, I mean everyone. The seniors are no exception; let me tell you, they’re not about to let a little thing like age slow them down. I recently attended a Christmas party with my high school classmates—now a lively bunch of senior citizens. Despite the occasional cane and creaky joints, they danced the limbo rock as though auditioning for a music video. Somewhere between cheering them on and stifling my laughter, I realized these seniors were out-partying me.

The retired teachers’ party was just as spirited. Some of these folks are well into their 90s, but there they were, swaying on the dance floor with the kind of enthusiasm that puts younger generations to shame. They participated in games with gusto and piled their plates high with festive food. It’s as if Christmas grants them an extra dose of vitality—and maybe a little extra appetite.

Cabatuan Retired Elementary Teachers Christmas Party

Lighting Up the Town (and the Spirits)

One of the highlights of a Filipino Christmas is the fully decked-out town plaza. Towns compete for the best lighting displays, and let me tell you, it’s no joke. These plazas don’t just twinkle—they blaze like someone handed the town electrician an unlimited budget and a sugar rush. The lighting ceremonies are a spectacle of fireworks, music, and communal cheer, drawing people from far and wide to reconnect with old friends, distant relatives, and maybe even that one ex they’d rather avoid.

Simbang Gabi: Faith and Food

No Filipino Christmas is complete without the tradition of Simbang Gabi, a nine-day series of early morning novena masses leading up to Christmas Day. For some, it’s a spiritual journey. For others, it’s a chance to indulge in post-mass snacks like bibingka and puto bumbong. Let’s be honest—some people are there for the food as much as the faith, and who can blame them? Nothing warms the soul like a steaming plate of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves in the early hours of the day.

Party Marathon: A Grandson’s Concern

The sheer number of parties here is astounding. When I told my grandson in Canada how many Christmas events I’d attended—and how many more were still to come—he quipped, “By the time Christmas is over, you’ll be a walking “lechon!” (I’m still trying to decide if that was a compliment or a warning.)

The expenses for these celebrations could make anyone’s wallet cry, but Filipinos approach it with remarkable generosity. They chip in for gifts, food, and other party essentials without hesitation. At one party, the mayor and several councillors showed up. And they even had a guest speaker. They had garlands for these guests and prizes for the games. The only thing they forgot? The rice! Thankfully, the staff at the convention center saved the day, cooking up a batch in record time. The seniors laughed it off, saying, “That’s just part of the fun!”

A Christmas to Remember

What struck me most about these celebrations wasn’t just the lights or the laughter—it was the effort to include everyone. Organizers go out of their way to ensure seniors can attend, providing transport and other assistance. These parties aren’t just about fun; they’re about connection.

So, while my grandson jokes about me turning into a lechon, I’ll take it as a compliment—after all, lechons crown every gathering – delicious and absolutely unforgettable.