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Friday, November 6, 2020

"Drama, Tragedy and Comedy in Between?"



The sky is dispirited.

From afar, a disturbance is brewing.

The black clouds deepen.

The wind, blustery flaunting its might, whirs an unforeseen danger.

In a short while, the first drop of tear will fall from the heavens.

Tremor will be felt.

Chaos will erupt.

The torment will begin.

Awaitingly, as the inner storm sets off, we envision a way to outdare the inevitable. Either "[we] suffer," to borrow the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, "or survive to find meaning in the suffering." Neither sound comforting though, nonetheless, we have to choose.

For most of us, we decide just to be true

Sometimes, for years, we remain sincere to ourselves.

So rightful that, in point to experience, people at times misjudge us for who we truly are. 

We tell them what's true, they denounce us.

We tell them what's wrong, they condemn us.

We tell them what's funny, they pity us.

We tell them what's sad, they laugh at us.

They make us feel that we make dramas out of something; that we exaggerate the importance of anything minor (personal or not). And yet, these same faces are the first ones who, after hearing the news of your untimely demise, send flowers of condolences to your family. They show remorse when all else is gone, lost and forever unmendable.

Anne Frank is right: "dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude."

So, the next time you see a person who looks calm on a sunny day sitting so quietly before you, 

take a deep breath.

Tone down. 

Respect the space. 

Feel the presence.

Be sensitive.

Never judge.

Know that somewhere within him, in the lowest recesses of his soul, lies an existential storm---- a drama for you, a tragedy to some, but is never, was never, and will never be a comedy to him.

"Just because he carries it well does not mean it is not heavy." 


06.11.2020

03:44 PM


Tuesday, November 3, 2020

"What Love is Not," Part 1


Love does not seek attention.

Attention is to focus on someone or something that evokes interest; to select or to narrow down one's response for the purpose of awereness; to put a person, a thing or an idea into notice. 

And we human beings, more often than not, want attention.

Why?

Because it is part and parcel of us to be needed, validated, or perhaps, valued. 

If we want to look attractive for a friend's birthday party, for instance, we dress up gorgeously. And we want someone or everyone to recognise us.

If we want to be famous and make our works be known by all, we do all sort of things to be acknowledged.

We do things to feel that we belong with the "crowd".

We dance their own music.

We sing their own songs.

We watch their own movies.

We speak their own language.

I'm not saying though that seeking attention is outrightly wrong. But, in most cases, we exert too much just to be someone we are not.

Consequently, we lose sight of who we really are. 

When this happens, pretensions and fabrications become evident. 

We hide in fear of being judged.

Slowly, self esteem diminishes.

Insecurities creep in.

But, what do these things, then, got to do with love?

When the lover does not find values in him, the beloved becomes invaluable too. It is because one can't give what one doesn't possess. "To love others," says Leo Buscaglia,"you must first love yourself." He expounds,

To the extent to which you know yourself, and we are all more like alike than different, you can know others. When you love yourself, you will love others. And to the depth and extent to which you can love yourself, only to that depth and extent will you be able to love others...

Love yourself, accept yourself, forgive yourself, and be good to yourself, because with you the rest of us [wont] have a source of many wonderful things.

As it should be, if you have found that value within, never be bothered of other people's impression on you nor chase recognition from them. For love is always effortless and, like all beautiful things in the world, it does not seek attention.



03.11.2020

02:35 PM

Monday, November 2, 2020

"Soulmate"


At first glance, paying no heed to an unforgotten past, I know that there is confusion within. The gloomy eyes, deeply shaded by a trace of dejection, just bring back an atmosphere of sadness. 

Hurt, troubled, and wounded, I couldn't help being not just evocative, but also apprehensive of how to handle the situation.

Intently wanting to lessen the pain, the comfort just starts with a simple smile.

Unexpectedly, a sudden stillness ensues.

There is tranquility; there is reticence.

The quietude, though at times defeaning, is so consoling. Somehow, it is as if, even in the lack of words, there exists a mutual feeling of warmth and gentleness.  Silence, absurdly, has the most interesting stories after all, only if one listens hard enough. 

Slowly, the conversation happens.

In anticipation, the sharing unfolds effortlessly. The gesture of trust, which is rarely given to a stranger, is evidently felt.

More than ever, beneath each story, there are fulfillments and frustrations; merits and flaws; strengths and shortcomings; gains and losses; comings and goings; tears and laughters.

But, in all of these, life happens in between.

What makes it beautiful though is, in a short space of time, from morning walks to midnight talks, something magical, surreal or other-worldly transpires.

In point to romance, it is as though the "wound", of the past and now, and the longingness to be heard, to be understood, and perhaps, be accepted down the line, "calls back the halves of [us] together," as Aristophanes profoundly describes,"to make one out of two and heal the wound [in us]." Further, he says:

Each of us then is a 'matching half' of which each of us is always seeking the half that matches him... [When] a person meets the half that is his very own, something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses... by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment. These are people who finish out their lives together and still cannot say what it is they want from one another.


What then draws the two together?


Love


It unifies.

It listens.

It extends to.

It gives.

It gets through.

It expands.

It doesn't judge.

It remains true.

It heals.

However, love in such a context shouldn't be misunderstood. For I love not merely for the sake of finding someone to be "healed." Otherwise, my love becomes a "commodity" to be possessed, desired only for the completion of something, or for personal gain. 

It must always be an outcome arising from:

an intimate choice,  

unconditional dedication, 

a  series of sacrifices, 

and, a lifetime commitment to enjoy and share happiness together while enduring pain at the same time. 

"Love," according to Leo Buscaglia then, "is always bestowed as a gift-- freely, willingly and without expectation. [For] we don't love to be loved; we love to love."

Your Soulmate, therefore, is a significant other; a special someone, may it be a friend or a spouse, who "mysteriously" or "mythically" loves you and, ultimately, completes you, sometimes in ways that no mortal language can ever understand.  Your soulmate will always "lead you gently back to yourself" Buscaglia adds, "not to whom he wants you to be, but to who you are."


So, remain still.

Just be.




02.11.2020

02:49 PM

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid

Sunday, November 1, 2020

"Sad Eyes on Happy Faces"

 

I don't normally think much everytime I get the chance to capture people's emotions through my camera. All I know is that once the shutter sounds, a certain memory is paused even for a second. Thereafter, a moment is forever framed. 

And like all pictures that deserve fond rekindling, I browse through my albums artlessly. I revisit them in vivid details.

Unsurprisingly, in most cases, a melodrama sets in. I can't help but recall the narratives behind each image; a story, which at times, only the person behind the camera knows.

As the tale unfolds, sadly, the burden of recalling their troubled past haunts me in ways I can't explain. I become too attached to their problems as much as I get too attached to them personally. Whence, it becomes emotionally difficult for me, at one time or another, to handle their adversities.

I know that there is a lie in each smile.

I know that there is pain in each gaze.

I know that there is suffering in each smirk.

I know that there is innocence in each stare.

I know that, indescribably, there is something wrong in the photos: 

"I see sad eyes on happy faces."

They all make it look like everything is fine; that all things are bearable even if they're not. And sometimes its hurts me to know that right after a seemingly comforting "smile", the struggle continues; the torment lingers.

This is probably one of the downfalls of being an artist: to be able to take a glimpse of their souls through my lens without prejudices. 

No pretensions. 

No fabrications. 

Just plain exposition of their existential frailty.

I couldn't care less, plain-speakingly, but I have to remain true to myself to document their emotions more than their thoughts. After all, "thoughts are never honest," says Albert Camus, "emotions are."



28.09.2020

02:30 PM

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid

Tool: Autodesk Sketchbook

"A Gap to Fill"



What is a gap? 

In plain terminology, a gap is an interval between two things, a separation of one point from another. In geography, a gap exists where two continents are disjoined by some natural or artificial structure. The division between Australia and Asia, for example, shows the oceanic gap of two massive mainlands. In history, a gap means an interval between one timeframe and the next. In socio-economics, a gap displays a dramatic difference between two variables of a desisting relationship. In the field of statistics, mathematicians consider it a gap where a deviation occurs in an analysis due to the absence of facts between two available data. In human relations, a gap could be an emotional discontinuity—a break, a sudden cessation. Two lovers, for instance, may find themselves in an awkward situation which calls for a decision whether or not to continue a long distance relationship; here communication failure may be causing a rift that disconnects them from each other. The inadequacy to share one's emotions or ideas with one’s partner is normally referred to as a “communication gap.”

In the existential parlance, a gap is an empty space in life—a “hole” in which something important is missing. It is a vacuity which results in some incompletion and deficiency in life.  Dr. Viktor Emil Frankl  calls this an “existential vacuum” or life's lack of meaning. 

[…]I turn to the detrimental influence of that feeling of which so many patients complain today, namely the feeling of the total and ultimate meaninglessness of their lives. They lack the awareness of a meaning worth living for. They are haunted by the experience of their inner emptiness, a void within themselves; they are caught in a situation which I have called the “existential vacuum.” 

Such empty space is “allegorically a hole in life that impedes man from understanding his desperate setting. It sucks the soul out of him; it is somewhat like a “gapping abyss”, an outlet that vacuums everything down to nothingness.”  As a result, instead of moving forward, man remains motionless and static. His future is of no value to him anymore. He gradually loses himself. He tires of living and becomes restless. Boredom then sets in. Frankl notes:

No instinct tells [man] what he ought to do; sometimes he does not even know what he wishes to do. Instead, he either wishes to do what other people do (conformism) or does what other people wish him to do (totalitarianism)…[This] existential vacuum manifests itself mainly in the state of boredom… In actual fact, boredom is now causing, and certainly bringing to psychiatrists, more problems to solve than distress. And these problems are growing increasingly crucial… The pity of it is that many of these will not know what to do [.] 

True enough, a life without purpose and direction is a life of dormancy. But what does this idea got to do with death?

This state—of not being able to do something in the “now”—is a threat to existence. Such sedentariness will eventually compromise his future.  Since man’s life involves not only the “then and now” but also the morrow, then something must be done in its regard. Death as a future event—an occurrence that necessitates significance in life— must be viewed positively.   For he who does not see any reason to move forward, who does not foresee death and envision something worth doing before it occurs, loses himself in an existential void and becomes a slave of his own indolence.

So how does one fill a gap?

One must learn to create a pathway; a bridge that will connect something or someone (a person, an idea, or an event) to a transformative value. This bridge is what Frankl calls “logotherapy.” By logos he means “meaning”, while therapy remains a curative approach irrespective of its application or effect. In simple terms, logotherapy means man’s search for meaning.  What makes this approach distinct as a therapy is that it amounts to a re-confrontation of the human state. This personal reevaluation makes one accept the constant face-off between a dismal life and one's own struggle to find resolution within this existence.  He then explores himself again and redefines his life. “Live as if you are already living for the second time [around],”  Frankl asserts.  The method of logotherapy allows one to focus “on the meaning to be fulfilled” in anticipation of one's future,  one's forthcoming death.

Filling the gap, in this perspective, is of 3 folds: (a) finding meaning in experience, (b) finding meaning through artistic vision or creativity, and (c) finding meaning through a change of attitude. In the experiential stage, man is encouraged to appreciate himself, the people around him and the environment where he lives in. Such appreciation within him and outside of him is not given, but rather found.  This is the reason why there must be a constant search of meaning in every aspect of life where man is totally involved in. Further, this “found meaning” is coupled by a desire to actively participate in each other’s emotional needs: to devote time with one another, to enjoy each other’s company, to form a bond that will last a lifetime, and, above all, to love and be loved.  It is “through love and in love” that the lovers find themselves in keeping.   Frankl adds,

Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality. No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him. By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized. Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities. By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true. 

Secondly, in the creative stage, man is seen as a painter whose masterpiece is yet to be made. He continuously shapes the future by his artistic disposition. By this, he makes a unique mark of his very own existence by revealing his personal values and sense of responsibility.  It is in this level that he is asked to give something to his future—his contribution, his legacy.

Lastly, since everything in life is mutable then there must be a constant change of attitude in all given situations. This makes it necessary for man to adjust to and at the same time prepare for what lies hereafter; despite the difficulties of life, he should find meaning in the direst of conditions. “[I]f there is meaning in life at all, then there must be meaning in [death] and suffering,”  says Frankl.  And this search for meaning must be always anchored on a right attitude— to find value even in every dreadful scenario. Frankl cites an example:

Once, an elderly general practitioner consulted me because of his severe depression. He could not overcome the loss of his wife who had died two years before and whom he had loved above all else. Now, how could I help him? What should I tell him? Well, I refrained from telling him anything but instead confronted him with the question, “what would have happened, Doctor, if you had died first, and your wife would have had to survive you?” “Oh,” he said, “for her this would have been terrible; how she would have suffered!” whereupon I replied, “You see, Doctor, such a suffering has been spared from her, and it was you who have spared her this suffering—to be sure, at the price that now you have to survive and mourn her.” He said no word but shook my hand and calmly left my office. In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of sacrifice… in that moment I did succeed in changing his attitude toward his unalterable fate inasmuch as from that time on he could at least see a meaning in his suffering. 

Irrefutably, life in this context, regardless of the persistent search for meaning, is not reduced to a state of apathy and idleness but rather intensifies the need to do something enduring and worth-noting.  This is what the meaning triangle  is all about. To Frankl, man should at all times engage himself in something—may it be a meaning to accomplish or a bond to be ardently encountered.  So, as man prepares for death, each day, as he is given the opportunity to live life anew, he must always make himself ready to move forward. Likewise, to create an enduring legacy, there must be something to look forward to, something to know, something to learn, something to be done, and someone and something to love. 




Lot Tabilid,Jr. Chapter 8: "Mindfulness of Death," Thinking Human: A Comprehensive Worktext in Introduction to the Philosophy of the Human Person for Senior High School (USC Press, 2016), 95-108.

 


"A Tale of Trail"



What is a trail for?

A trail is a pathway created for a specific objective: to reach a certain point. Mountaineers, for example, follow a course to arrive at a destination. This track guides them through any landscape that they encounter along the way. As such, no geographical setting is non-traversable if one has a trail to follow.

But not all roads are the same. At some point a trail is treacherous for travellers to pass through due to its disorienting environment. Case in point is the notorious condition of the Himalayan ranges. It has, according to experienced summiteers, the toughest path in both eastern and western ceilings on earth. In fact, the highest point in that region—found on Mt. Everest—bears witness to numerous expeditions that defy the human spirit. According to statistics, only 70% of hikers completed the grueling climb after they embarked on their journey at the foothill. Roughly, out of 5,000 people who attempted to reach the peak, 219 of them died before having got the chance to stand on the ridge.  Countless of them failed, only a few survived. Yet, despite its difficult trail, the “mountain of doom”—an ill-famed title due to its harsh habitation—still claims the most visits among all mountains around the world. Even so, the challenge stays the same: to surmount the insurmountable.

But why, despite an unwelcoming reputation, climb such a mountain? 

Albert Camus answers this through a Greek allegory. Sisyphus, like all mountaineers, is no stranger to a trip uphill. He knows the pain and the struggle to reach the height. What makes his ascent different though is that, as punishment by the gods, he carries with him a boulder of herculean mass to be pushed along the way. He moves it forward until it reaches the edge. He then waits for the rock to fall on its own weight. As he blankly stares through the rock stumbling down the abyss, he catches his breath in anticipation of his insane penalty. He rushes downhill. He embraces his rock. He clutches his hands to it and, with all his strength, propels the rock to the same trail again. Tedious and boring, he goes back to his rock trudging. The monotony continues not for a day but for eternity. One then can imagine the face of a man with a heavy body drained throughout the day’s work doing his routine in no definite reason. Indeed, “[…] there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labour.”  

Nevertheless, despite an injured body caused by constricting stress, Sisyphus regains his dignity by conquering the rock. He understands his situation. He knows that his life is no different from the rest. “[T]he workman of today,” says Camus, “works every day in his life at the same tasks and his fate is no less [strange].” But what separates him from other mortals is that his state—despite its being scorned by the gods—is intensified by his resiliency. He acknowledges his human condition like no one else. As a result, the return towards his rock marks his defiance over everything. Sisyphus, compared to those climbers who want to reach the top of Mt. Everest, displays his passion to prevail over what is given in life, what is laid down at hand. Through this, he denies submission to any trial. He becomes stronger than his rock and “superior” to his fate. He turns out to be “the master of his days.”

What merit is there to carry one’s rock? 

To Camus, a rock embodies a life of undoubted struggle. “Living naturally is never easy,”  he says. Even Sisyphus, who accepts the sterility of a life pointed towards an end, does not denounce the wearying effort to endure a situation devoid of meaning. Until man leaves, he will never be able to free himself from life’s series of illogical situations. Death, in fact, is an extremely ridiculous reality. That is, man exists only to die. His assumption to life is his very own admission to death. The madness of finding reason in every unreasonableness is the conforming state of absurdity. Camus expounds, 

A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity… it can be seen, without further explanation, that there is a direct connection between this feeling and the longing for death.  

In the article Suicide: An Existential Crisis, the writer believes that the absurd intensifies “the ‘pulling effect’ of each despairing poles from which the individual finds it difficult to sustain, and even understand.” And since it fails to explain the tension of each side, “[man] stripped by the false impression of a happy life which leads him, at the end of the day, to the uncertainty of death and a life of confounding futility [is] forced to ask whether life is worth living at all.”  

In view of this, the rock becomes a quandary: what point is there in living if life ends in death? “Does the absurd [life] dictate death?”  Sisyphus’ answer is of existential significance. Without hesitation he inches back to his rock again.  He lives his life in compliance to no one.  He knows that, despite absurdity, his uprising validates his sole conviction—to conquer the inevitability of death with defiance.  To defy here means to ready oneself to transcend over difficulties; to rise above a tough trail. This personal insurrection, therefore, is the freedom to desire and live passionately even in the absence of reason. Miley Cyrus must have read The Myth of Sisyphus in her song The Climb  which says,  

I can almost see it. The dream I’m dreaming,

but there’s a voice inside of my head

You’ll never reach it, Every step I’m taking

Every move I make, Feels lost with no direction,

My faith is shakin’ But I gotta keep trying,

Gotta keep my head held high

(Chorus)

… Sometimes I’m gonna wanna have to lose

Ain’t about how fast I get there.

Ain’t about what’s waiting in the other side.

It’s the climb

… The struggles I’m facing

The chances I’m facing sometimes might knock me down,

but No, I am not breaking

… and I, gotta be strong

In perspective, Sisyphus exemplifies the truth of what it is to be human. By accepting his fate, he prepares himself for what lies ahead. He knows that even at the foothill, his torment already begins. The trail and the rock are now in one place. All he has to do is breathe out of disbelief. His anguish, which starts at his birth, is certain after all. This is the reality which he must accept. Upon recognition of the unavoidable conditions, Sisyphus slowly casts his eyes on the sky. The mental pain then sinks in. He knows that, like all mortals, the trip to the crest is a back-and-turn date with death. Yet, he worries about nothing since he knows that, with exemption of no one, he cannot run away from it. His journey comes to a completion only when he liberates himself from the anxiety of a life chastised towards an end. His remedy is simply to continue living. The rock of Sisyphus, therefore, and the trail that each trekker walks through essentially shows one thing: “If the descent [or ascent] is sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy.” Despite this absurd existence, man must sustain his progressive disposition until death comes. Only then, like all men who “struggle towards the heights”, can Sisyphus be “imagine[d] happy.”



Lot Tabilid,Jr. Chapter 8: "Mindfulness of Death," Thinking Human: A Comprehensive Worktext in Introduction to the Philosophy of the Human Person for Senior High School (USC Press, 2016), 95-108.

"A Day in the Garden"

 



What makes a garden?

A garden is a place where flowers and plants of various types are refined and cultivated. It is an area where botanical life is relished and nurtured carefully. It is also a place where an atmosphere of tranquillity comes into view. Thus, like all things in the physical world—man-made or not, it becomes a venue for discernment or leisure. This is the reason why the phrase “a walk through the woods and garden” is associated to those who are contemplating, breaking themselves away from a wearisome life. Even Jesus visits Gethsemane— a greenery outside Jerusalem, countless of times.  He does so very often since it is, in all odds, the only location in the city where silence looms. In fact, pointing to biblical account, Jesus spends the remaining hours of his life looking for inner comfort in the garden.  Thus, to some—as it is to Jesus—a garden is a sanctuary.

To a selected few, a garden is a creation of art— a piece of work where attention to details and creativity are put into notice. The hanging garden of Babylon, for example, exhibits such artistry. By historical description, the ones that grew around the cemented walls of the structure were vegetation and foliage of diverse terrains from all over the world. However, unlike any other ordinary garden, it thrived in the most forsaken site on earth—in a desert where everything else, like water and its environment, is scarce and hostile. It was no ordinary garden therefore because it flourished through time despite a direful condition. Hence, like any imaginative work, a garden is an artefact of one’s reflective ingenuity.

For Martin Heidegger, a garden is a product of dwelling. In his book Poetry, Language, Thought, he clearly states that everything in the world is a gift to which one is invited to respond with affection and devotion. Here, just like a gardener, each individual is called to nurture the world and the things in it with a sense of responsibility. To dwell profoundly, henceforth, is to garden —to lay out something on the ground with utmost care and attention.

So what does it mean to dwell? 

To begin with, to dwell is to let-be, to allow things to come into presence—to reveal itself. In this context, it is to be aware of one’s unique human condition— the irreplaceable circumstances that separate man from the rest; a kind of situation that makes him distinct amidst plurality. This includes situations or sequence of substantial and accidental features that constitute largely the condition of one’s life. Substantial structures include man’s physical parts that are not foreign, thus common to other bodies (number of limbs, eyes, nose, and etc.); or, the very nature of man himself—a rational being— that which separates him from other lower entities or created beings. While accidental structures include race, religion, physical attributes, the kind of family where one belongs, the societal status that one enjoys, the lists of unintended qualitative and/or quantitative components of man which include the color of one’s eyes, skin, hair and etc. 

The aforesaid things must be acknowledged. One should recognize the various features of life that define man. He is then encouraged to accept everything, to give importance to the kind of life where he is in. This process of personal awareness—which includes a careful assessment of life—allows him to discover his individuality. As a consequence, he learns to value himself. He identifies his right and responsibility. And it is in this framework, therefore, that existence becomes his own. 

Part of the existential challenge is to confront one’s inimitable situation and the certainty of a life pointed towards an end. This life's drama, which is customarily presented through an illustration (see diagram below), involves man’s existence in the horizon of time. To Heidegger, Dasein—in reference to man as a-being-there-in-the-world—is in a “thrown” existence, imposed and yet transitory. And it is in this “thrownness”, this “givenness,” that he is continually reminded of his “momentariness,” a passing existence—a tragedy. "As soon as man comes to life," Heidegger says, "he is at once old enough to die." Such grim reality offers no immunity to all and yet it calls for a remedy to something seemingly unfulfilling. On this ground, to appropriate Heidegger’s words, death and dying are valued and magnified in the level of authentic existence alone. This genuineness in living presupposes recognition of what is humbly “thrown” or given to each individual. Therefore, in all human condition, it is essential to admit the fact that death is not just a mere inactivity of the future. Differing from its definition as a complete annihilation or total destruction of the self, it is, in essence, a part of the wholeness of one’s being. That is, among all great things, a comprehensive recognition of death is imperative to a life that seeks for meaning. And isn’t this the kind of mind-set that one should not live without? For in this manner, death will lead one slowly to the very core of his existence—towards a complete awareness of what he is and what he can become. 

In adherence to Heidegger, Thomas Flynn believes that man—in response to this inexorable human circumstance— must learn how to “dwell poetically.” To dwell poetically here means to live romantically on what is certain. This passionate confrontation with death, however, does not instigate an irrational conformity to the unknown—simply surrendering to that which is inconceivable and inescapable, but rather it brings about an artistic dimension to it. This sort of representation is equated to imaginative living—a life lived gently and tenderly through gardening.

Figuratively, in a gardener’s perspective, each area to cultivate—a raw land which requires refinement—is his project. It is a given task that demands careful work over a long period of time. Similarly, such piece of land is what Heidegger means by “thrownness,”a situation that invites personal assessment and perceptivity. And when one understands this unique human state, when one acknowledges and responds to it, one begins to enrich one's existence, and then one beautifies it. Existence then becomes a transformative project. 

Eventually, in the course of improving the land, the gardener takes pride in taking care of his plants and flowers. He nurses them in the same way that man, in his vocation to provide meaning to existence, nurtures that which surrounds him. It is so because part of this process entails the growth of each being. In all likelihood, just as the gardener grows with his plants, so man—in his effort to nourish all other beings and the world where he lives in - also flourishes in every aspect of his life. 

In conclusion, to garden is: to put life into what is barren; to cultivate hope and meaning to what is empty, to create a sense of purpose, to beautify that which needs improvement, to be concerned with the world, to care for others, to make a lasting imprint in one’s existence, to accomplish something. And, finally, to dwell as if he who does not find reason for living has never visited a beautiful garden at all. 



Lot Tabilid,Jr. Chapter 8: "Mindfulness of Death," Thinking Human: A Comprehensive Worktext in Introduction to the Philosophy of the Human Person for Senior High School (USC Press, 2016), 95-108



"After the Day Star"



What else can one do in the time before sunset?  

A sunset is a recessing time of the day. A graceful decline; a descent towards a vanishing point, a repose. But to Plato, it is more than just a metaphor of Elysian rest. It is a recurring pause, a reminder that a day is once again done. Like all things in life, nothing stands still. Everything comes to an end.  As the sun thus quietly sinks in the skyline, a natural occurrence of cessations also break through the open canvas: the story closes, the melody fades, the water of the seas retreats, the flowers wilt, the leaves fall, and then the seasons change. In the book Living, Loving and Learning, Leo Buscaglia notes that nothing is permanent. The very moment “a thing reaches its height, it begins to decline. […] nothing endures but change.” 

Indeed, nothing lasts long. As each second ticks, everything moves from a beginning to an end, and so does human life. Our loved ones, to illustrate a point, are changing just as we are. But as we advance in prime, they in turn become frail and sickly. And they too will one day exit from life’s looming fate. Desolately, every man’s life is in itself intended by the natural world to move through a series of growth; it is always in a motion to reach its height and then, without any trace of choice, resolute to death.

So, what makes a beautiful sunset?  

Plato has a classic answer. To him, man should be made aware of the difference between the perfect world and the material world. Man, while in this (imperfect) world, should not devote on things that do not last, for no matter how successful man is with his earthly possessions, everything is but a fleeting investment of the future—impermanent, never meant for worldly contentment.  What merits a second look though is a life well lived. After all, to note the teaching of his great mentor Socrates: an unexamined life is not worth living. And it is in Plato’s Apology  that he shows how self-knowledge becomes an important component to a meaningful life. Norman Melchert says, “Just as the shoemaker cannot make good shoes unless he understands his material, [man] cannot construct a good life unless [he] knows himself.”  So, making fine shoes is like mastering the art of living; as in the same analogy, so also one lives well.

It is worth to note that Plato wants man to anticipate the sundown by examining the deeper self.  One should know the end to learn how to begin.  First, he must see to it that he is sensitive to his very own existence.  He should know the recipe of his life.  He needs to know the ingredients that are needed to understand human existence. In this likeness, he must prepare two baskets in hand—one contains the essential items for living while the other holds the useless pieces of life.  Correct knowledge is required to understand the differences of the two and follow that which is fitting while abandoning the unfit.   

Plato encourages detachment from mundane glamour.  Everything in this world is a poor imitation of what is truly real.  So one should not stick to what is not eternal and lasting. He means to free the self from the anxiety of life by wading off “bodily pleasures and adornments.”   It is only the living after all who are worried of such earthly entitlements, since a wise man, as he fits himself to the next world, does not attach himself to any elegant things or “bodily ornaments.”  He rather “despises them—in so far as there is no real necessity for him to go in for that sort of thing.”   This is what Plato means when he speaks of a man who trains himself in dying and living in a situation “as close as possible to death”  even at the outset of life.  He goes:  

"Ordinary people seem not to realize that those who really apply themselves in the right way to philosophy are directly and of their own accord preparing themselves for dying and death. If this is true, and they would have actually been looking forward to death all their lives, it would of course be absurd to be troubled when the thing comes for which they have so long been preparing and looking forward." 

And thus, for the great thinker, a wise man is never surprised by death for he is at all times ready to go; he is a man sensitive enough to accept his borderline situation.   For that reason, “[The] philosopher’s soul is [also] ahead of all the rest.”   It is so because he follows “philosophy in the right way” and truly prepares himself “to face death easily.”   Simply put, “a true [philosopher makes] dying his profession [.]”  He sees to it that life is lived fully by anticipating death and he does this by making the most or perhaps the best in everything there is before the day star disappears. 


Lot Tabilid,Jr. Chapter 8: "Mindfulness of Death," Thinking Human: A Comprehensive Worktext in Introduction to the Philosophy of the Human Person for Senior High School (USC Press, 2016), 95-108.



"Colors"



Wherever we go, we see colors everywhere.

Blue for seas.

Green for peas.

Yellow for bees.

But whatever we perceive to be, color is at times relative. Apart from empirical sensation and interpretation, we learn to connect colors to anything or anyone of indelible value; we relate it to an unforgotten portion of time. 

Thereof, one may even differ the idea that actual colors are always objectively real. For it's neither fixed nor certain, always dependent of the beholder.

Thus, in the light of personal experience, we associate colors with memories (pleasant or not). These colors then heighten the act of recalling what has been learned and retained through associative process. And it's no surprise that, in a world awash with monochromity, we evolve in ways that help us remember things in poetic details.

So, to some as it is to me, 

blue becomes dreamy, not gloomy.

Green becomes lively, not queasy.

Yellow becomes doughty, not cowardly.


And, I don't mind if the color red tames my melancholy. 🙂



16.10.2020

9:40 PM

"Waiting"

To “wait” is to remain in place for someone or something; to stay stationary.

To look forward with a feeling, either in excitement or anxiety, that something is about to happen.

To pause.

To hold back.

To Stay on.

To linger.

BUT, at times, the “waiting” becomes excruciating, unbearable, if not depressing.

Minutes become hours.

Hours become days.

Days become years.

Years become uncertain.

And, suddenly, you find yourself blankly staring at “nothing”

In such an unfounded “delay-ness” of the moment, in exhaustion, one feels existentially abandoned.

Displaced.

Betrayed.

Lost.

And, forgotten.

Unsure of what comes next, you can just merely sigh in disbelief. This world afterall, with all its ambiguities and reservations, continually silence the soul that longs for meaning.

With a heavy heart, "she was waiting,” Albert Camus pens, “but she didn't know for what. She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold, and of a greater weight in the region of her heart.

Without a doubt, one of the worst things in life, with a piercing tenor, could be the "waiting" process, but nothing could be sadder than to know that nothing in life is really worth waiting for.



11.10.22

11:43 PM

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid


"The Rose"



While the winter wind is about to recede gently from its lividity, a certain "rose" grows unforeseenly from nowhere. She looks pale and feeble, markedly lacking in colors. Her grace, disvalued by a past that forbids any form of remembering, overshadows the beauty that once exalts her mind and spirit.

Frail. 

Enervated. 

Infirm.

Anguishly seeking for refuge, her spirit screams for comfort.

Unknowingly, as the season changes to spring, she finds a glimpse of hope to fill her pallid condition. 

The "Light", which used to be the very source of her despondency, now becomes the same reason of her vitality. HE sends someone to water her, to cultivate her; to care for her lost soul. 

And as the day passes by, there is florescence in the air. The friendship blossoms. The "rose", responding from a tender guidance, blooms in gracile fashion.

As she sees herself affectionately from her gardener's eyes, the faith is restored. Once again, she is reminded that whichever garden she finds herself in, that same "Light", which she inadvertently doubted at times, will never abandon her delicate soul.

True enough, you will never have a better friend than the one who brings you closer to the "Light".


03.10 .2020

01:58 PM



"Tired"


The sun is set to come out and yet I lalready long for the sundown.

My corporeity is awake but, as always, my soul is in deep slumber.

I don't even know why I'm here. I just feel lost-- fatigued to the point of exhaustion.

I am tired.

I am strangely tired... not from having walked so much, but probably at the mere thought of what I still have to walk through.



22.02.2020

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid

Tool: Autodesk Sketchbook

"Incertitude"

Uncertainty is certain.

It blatantly reminds us that there is no assurance to everything. No matter how hard we try to make things the way they should be, nothing is guaranteed. 

Things may or may not happen. 

When this occurs, the mind at times becomes mistrustful of what lies ahead. 

Skeptic.

Suspicious.

And, in doubt.

One goes into unsettling thoughts of “What's life gonna be ?” “Why am I anxious?” “What's the point of starting if all ends the same way?” “What merit is there to live if tomorrow is never a promise?”

When we find ourselves athirst of certainty, the message is clear: we don't find comfort of the unknown. It's like walking blindfolded, unsure of what's the next step is going to be. Hence, we lose our anchorage.

"Where are we going?" The answer just flagrantly points to nowhere and we are, time and again, adrift in the abysmal stare of the unknown.

Being existentially lost is the concrete feeling of "self-abandonment." We let go of the "self" before we go through the process of "coming-to-be." Hence, alone in the middle of a crossroad with no definite direction in life, one retreats from moving forward. And, we find our lives without purpose and meaning. This leaves us feeling even more helpless, wasted, futile and denied of ourselves.

To recover from this quandary, we have to become "aware" of our "limited-ness", our very own "boundaries" in living. This includes the things which "we-can" and that which "we-can't" do. By doing so, we learn to "accept" that which works and that which doesn't. After all, isn't life all about creating our own way and "will it" to happen? 

Dr. Viktor Frankl, a holocaust survivor, once said:

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves... Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

True enough, no matter how bleak and unsteady the morrow is, we have to ready ourselves with this agonising journey. We must so because uncertainty is certain.

 It can't be changed. 

And there is no other way to counter it but to do something about. 

If we can't find a way, we must at least "create" one.



01.04.2020

05:30 PM

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid

Tool: Autodesk Sketchbook 

"A Change of Perspective"



"What we learn in time of pestilence," says Albert Camus in his famous 1947 novel The Plague is that: "there are more things to admire in [humanity] than to despise."

True enough, what gives value to the on-going global outbreak of the Covid-19 is the fact that, despite being threatened by the unforeseeable effect of this crisis, everyone is called to re-calibrate, to reset some things in life, like:

Habit

Morality

Mortality

First, Habit: an involuntary behavior or a series of actions one is accustomed to doing, is now put in careful examination. The every day routines or the monotony of life that somehow distracts man from the essentials are challenged existentially. In response to this pandemic, for instance, precautionary safety measures are met to control the spread of the virus. Mandatory  quarantines are strictly implemented. Consequently, we see friends, families and loved ones held in enforced isolation. Their presence, which at times are taken for granted by old habits, is intensely missed by their absence. Being away from them help us realize that the most important things in life are not "what" we have but "who" we have.

"Once plague had shut the gates of the town," Camus adds, "they had settled down to a life of [discontinuity], debarred from the living warmth that gives forgetfulness of all." 

Separation, then, keeps us away from the enslavement of poor habits and brings us back deeper to reality. 

Secondly, in the outset of this pandemic, the concept of good and bad is tested. Morality is shaken. The absence of compulsion, or being "indifferent" to or toward one thing or another, is reshaped by the idea of "commonness". Everyone is susceptible. The virus knows no age, gender, race or religion. Once infected, no suffering is foreign to another body. What everyone is facing right now, therefore, is not just a matter of self-preservation alone but a "general" concern. As such, the rightness of an act is no longer pointed to different directions but to one specific goal: the good of the many. After all, in the worst calamity, when suffering becomes cumbersome, people rise above themselves to confront the inevitable. In doing so, they recognize a mutual effort: communal and collective, to reduce if not stop the spread of the virus. 

The quality of goodness then is reshaped by this act of social collaboration. We see doctors and healthcare professionals, for example, carry their utmost duty with no reservations. 

"An action, to have moral worth," to borrow the words of Immanuel Kant, "must be done from duty. Beneficence is a duty; and he who frequently practices it, and sees his benevolent intentions realized comes, at length, really to love him to whom he has done good. Beneficence is a duty."

Lastly, if there's one good thing that this pandemic has created, it is the awareness of our "limitedness" in life, our mortality, our own personal death. 

This crucial time in our life is a reminder that nothing stands still. 

Everything falters. 

Everything withers. 

Everything stops. 

No one is exempted. 

There is no escape in death and dying. 

But there is more to death that we should all know. This "boundary," says Martin Heidegger, "is not that at which something stops, but that from which something begins."

With death, mindfulness starts. 

We are made conscious of our looming end, but we shouldn't just give in to it and surrender to the inescapble without doing something. We need to have a sense of "urgency" each day, to remind ourselves that the "now" matters most especially in times of hopelessness. Now is the time that love and care are to be heightened in immense proportion.

And that we must, in all aspects, live life to the fullest for we know nothing of what comes ahead. And by making the most of everything there is: spending more time with the ones we love and we treasure affectionately, even if it does not reduce the risk of not contracting the virus or even avoid death, we at least, though seemingly futile and irrational in the midst of scare, still choose to act and outbrave the situation. 

Such defiance really is of no spot-on guarantee to make all things meaningful, but is enough to help us define our own existence. 

"If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely," Heidegger concludes, "I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life - and only then will I be free to become myself."

Now is the time to change our perspective.




15.03.2020

12:08 PM

"An Absurd Reminder"


A group of quiescent birds hover through the sky. The clouds are drowsy. The footsteps are in lethargy. There is listlessness everywhere.

I still hear restless souls, even in this corner of the world, being silenced by a corporeal desire for subsistence-- the struggle to find the means to live as to find the raison d'être in living. Sadly, the purpose-- of which happiness is at times compromised-- is put into question.

And what is life if not an act of repetition? “Life is absurd," says Albert Camus. " [And it becomes] tragic only at the rare moments when [one] becomes conscious [of it].”

And here I am, after a latent repose, experiencing the angst of futility. 

Follow, I may ask: How do we live in such a world that, even in the very best of what we do, still we end up dying and with no shortage of pain each day? And here we are, condemned to death at the very outset of birth, still strive to outlive our mortality. What value does it make?

A dreadful sigh consoles my mind. The questions are just too much to bear. The answer, which may or may not be comforting, is nowhere to be found.

But, I know one thing: "inactivity"-- the failure to respond to any given situation, with or without any assurance of favorable consequences, is never a victory! 

Hence, I must do something. 

I can't remain sedentary, indolent and sluggish of the inevitable. I must not surrender to the monotony of life. I must, instead, despite all grim realities, learn to "accept" what is given and "shape" what lies in front of me. 

I need to give it all and refuse to be broken by these challenges easily. After all, the world has always been fair since it has been unfair to everyone. 

So, there isn't much that I can do to life. There is no escape-route. The fact remains that there will always be pain and death even in success and failure.

I must, henceforth, confront life with the passion to find meaning in suffering and the willingness to find reason in every madness.



18.02.2020

05:52 AM



"A Beautiful Sleep"



To sleep means to rest. 

To be motionless. 

To be inactive. 

To pause.

To a busy body, to sleep is a timely break; a cessation, a juncture where one can, after a day of long work, leave off a tiring labor.

More so, a sleep is a retreat from life's numbing sameness, a withdrawal from a tedious repitition. A farmer, for instance, who meddles on the field all the days of his life is silenced solely by the sound of his sleep. His slumber thus becomes a breather, his only relief from a seemingly futile wakefulness.

Friedrich Nietzsche is right. "Sleeping is no mean an art: for its sake one must stay awake all day."

BUT, to sleep is more than just a quiescent.

Watching my son sleeps makes me realize that it is an ethereal repose: (a) personal, (b) formless and (c) spiritual.

Personal since I know nothing of what is going inside. The rainbows and the unicorns are all part of something magical. No matter how hard I try to examine his exclusive world, his spellbinding kingdom is no place for public scrutiny. In his sleep lies his privacy. It is only he, the dreamer therefore, who understands the very landscape of his reverie.

Formless and unbodied since imagination is always unfolding, never bound to any material confinement. Herein, his thoughts and emotions color the canvas of his fantasy. Unique as it is shapeless, attractive as it is unstructured, the content of his sleep then, in all its signification, is a gradual disclosure of his visionary creation.

Spiritual since to sleep is to surrender to an unforeseen futurity, a submission to a far greater truth that, in a way, encompasses the unknown. In such a state, my son entrusts his dormancy to a reality that is neither agreed empirically nor is worthy of intellectual clarification. Even so, it is in his deep sleep that he finds a way to commune with something or someone of utmost worthiness. 

So, what makes a beautiful sleep?

The question is as good as the examiner. For he who does not find answer to this query has never ever seen a child sleeps.



23.12.2019

11:33PM

Digital Art by: Lot Tabilid, Jr.

Tool: Autodesk Sketchbook

Samsung Tab A with S-Pen

"Lost"



The week ends. The week starts anew. The journey, always derisive in the midst of challenges, is taking it's toil to my corporeal body. For each drop of grief, my spirit longs to console my ever forsaken emprise. 

The door opens.

The door closes.

In betweens are the lust for peace to silent an abandoned mortal devoid of clarification.

When would this existential anxiety end?

The wind everyday is just too strong that it tears my soul from its moorings.

Yes, 

I am lost.

And yet, it's the best place to be to find myself.


10.11.2019

12.53 PM


"Aide Mémoire"

 

A glance into my old photo album makes me realize that “every man's memory is his private literature." From good old looks to good old friends, I think nothing seems to beat the old times when you have good memories to enjoy with. But underneath an ebon glare of endless fold, the pictures of cimmerian wilt are thrown out on the cold. 

Each page now starts to yellow. 

The paper crumbles. 

The album withers. 

And, as I turn one leaf to the next, I am reminded over and again of my limited timeline. Then a certain sadness ensues. 

From monochrome pictures to digital ones, I could not help but notice how time has changed. Watching my parents, once young and lively but now, their physical state is wasted and their strength becomes unstable. Their grey hairs and forelines remind me that I can’t stop them from aging. Like all things in life, nothing stands still. No matter how good they are and how significant they are to me, they just don’t influence the hands of time from moving forward. 

Suddenly,

the melody fades;

the sun sets;

the water of the sea retreats;

the flower wilts;

the leaf falls;

the season changes.

And, as it occurs abruptly in absence of notice, the inevitable happens. 

Death pierces through the timeline. 

We are now saddened by a loss of someone special.

We grieve. 

We experience pain. 

We feel sorrow. 

We deny the loss. 

We isolate ourselves. 

We feel sorry. 

We feel dispirited and disheartened. 

We go through all of these since, afterall, to quote Viktor Frankl, "grief is the price we pay for [loving]".

Yet, more than this, we bereave because we appeal to emotions not only arising from a loss, but more of a response based on delicate personal relationships and shared connections. Such feeling is a result of an unforgettable ties shared by people who once were personally thrown with each other, forming attachments and memories that they alone can exclusively and intimately  relate to.

Hence, we honor the dead not because one is already "missing" but one deserves "remembering". This clearly explains, to borrow the wisdom of my philosophy mentor Dr. Amosa Velez, why we show symbolic gestures of “care” every All Souls Day

We bring flowers in the cemetery. 

We lit candles. 

We recite “simple prayers”. 

And, we prepare and offer foods for the spirits to clearly indicate how we love them even beyond the grave.

So, no one really dies unless one is forgotten. We choose never to forget.

"One loves for always."


01.11.2019

07:49 PM

Digital Art by: Lot Jr Tabilid 



"Spring"



Despondent and grey, the first faint of light appears in the window. 

The glare slithers.

The radiance glows. 

The intricate illumination, which seldom awakens a well-worn soul, burnishes in impassitivity.

The day star aflames.

It's 5:30 am.

Slothfully, like all days in the past, I open my eyes to the gentle indifference of the world. Life is to be spent anew, over and again.

But today is quite different.

The lethargy of winter is melting. 

The weather is less hostile.  

The morning due is pleasantry fresh. 

The sky is lucent.

The flowers bloom.

All else is bracing.

Then suddenly, like every after state of dormancy, comes a season for renewal; a time for change, a time for growth, a time for progression.

Spring, in all its vitality, re-paints the varied landscapes of life:

The barren becomes fertile. 

The sterile becomes productive.

The desolate becomes festive.

"It is [therefore] the hour to rend thy chains", as Katherine Lee Bates says, "the blossom time of souls." 



14.09.20190

2:17 AM


"Winter Rain"


At the lowest ebb of the season, the heaven unloads the burden within. 

The sky darkens. 

The wind chills. 

The firmament glooms. 

Worn by exhaustion, the clouds suddenly weep.

The rain begins. 

The drops, as it kiss the ground,  exude an intense feelings of euphoria. Either elated by a deep sense of happiness or sadness, the anamnesis is severely revived by each drippy melody. The mind, caught in the throes of reminiscence, recalls that which the soul willfully forgets. 

And yet, the sonorous tone continues. 

The numbing weather swells. 

The heavy fall of the rain, which abruptly fills the ground, wails over. 

There is nothing we can do when tears flow uncontrollably from the heavens except one thing: "to pause".

To let it fall;  

To allow things "to be".

It is so since nothing lasts long. Everything ends. And so does the rain. 

When one allows things to happen-- to respond fittingly to what is natural, life becomes more spontaneous and beautiful. Albert Camus, in awe of the immense melancholy of the skies, poetically scribbles: "A liquid morning rose, dazzling over the pure sea. From the sky, fresh as a rose, washed and rewashed by the waters, reduced by each successive laundering to its most delicate and clearest texture, there fell a quivering light which gave each house, each tree a palpable shape and a magic "newness". The earth, on the morning the world was born, must have arisen in such a light." 

The rain thereof brings resurgence in life even in the very depth of winter. 



16.08.2019

07:48 PM

"Morning Musings"


As the artic air serenades the dream chamber, 
the winded hand knocks me up from deep slumber.

The monotony begins.

While half of the world is still asleep, my day starts with a script. 

I breathe the same air

I see the same color.

I embrace the same wind.

I play the same music.

I rewind the same memories.

Inside the capsule of time and space, the stop and go connive to replay the reiterative drama.

Each heavy step, then and again, traces the harrowing melancholy of the passage.

Albert Camus is right: "the workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd."

The day commences.

The day falls.

The cycle continues.

Although I know exactly what to do, I know nothing of what to accomplish.

Everything remains the same and yet I feel lost between the now and the morrow.


02.08.2019

9:37 PM