On a February moon, a celestial blank slate emerges, eager to paint its luminescent story anew on a tiny, beautiful island in the Philippines – where a little wild child was born, named after the Goddess of the moon.
My grandparents had woven the most fairytale-esque haven for my siblings and me. A tree house, a sanctuary of books, trees ripe for climbing, animals, and an enchanting garden. Days were for exploring, climbing trees, painting, dancing, and stretching my boundless creative mind. Nap times turned into fort building, creating new worlds after bedtime, my handwritten words lit by torchlight beneath the sheets.
I felt a magic lie deep inside me poised to burst forth like a starburst wonder. Crafting potions out of leaves, drawn to the whimsical world, fairies, angels and mermaids. My dad's white pickup truck carried us around the island, my sister and I nestled in the back, mesmerized…
The night holds its breath, as the Moon takes its place. The moonbeams guiding us, counting the stars. We’d camp out next to the sea as the waves serenade us, crackling fire dances to our tales of spirits and whimsical folklores. Watching embers transform into dreams, ascending to the stars. Running around the beach as the bioluminescence light up our little toes.
Lost in wonder, I'd chase after rocks like treasures from a forgotten kingdom, each one holding secrets etched by time itself. Beetles, miniature explorers with armor of glistening jewels, captivated my fascination. And every other species? They were like characters in the enchanting tale of nature, each with a role to play and a story to tell. This wasn't just a hobby; it was a dance of curiosity, a symphony of connection that resonated deep within my soul.
I remember my mom playing her piano as we waltz though the melodies, the golden sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow on the worn keys beneath her soft delicate fingers. With every stroke whispers stories of its own, tales of bygone days and dreams yet to be realized.
My grandfather’s weathered hands gripping the backseat of my pink tasseled bike, my heart raced in tandem with the rhythm of the pedals, his voice, a gentle stream of guidance, melded with the rustling leaves as I find my balance. Feeling the wind brush against my rosy cheeks.
These were the moments that make me who I am. Precious vignettes, threads of love, connection, and growth. The roots that anchor me in the present and gossamer wings carrying me toward the uncharted expanse. Igniting my fire passions, engraving the heart, the essence of who I am. For in these moments, I've learned that life isn't just about the destination, but the journey itself. To see beauty, to find magic in the quietest alcoves of everyday existence.
