IN SACRED GROUNDS
17 October 2020
In Sacred Grounds
“We constantly take on challenges and move against the flow of life’s ordeals, despite us having to sacrifice our being. Art and culture are the marks of our being’s souls. – Archie Oclos
An invitation and declaration from the maker, for the maker.
Journey is often referred to as the act of moving from one point to another, accustomed to the idea that there should always be a point of destination and beginning. Are we merely messengers threading this journey just to reach one point? And if so, where are we now? And where precisely is the point?
Seventy-seven white points. Seventy-seven white points. Seventy-seven white points.
Can we count points? Can we put colors on every point? And what’s the point of stating these points that I am pointing? Is the point of each point is not having a point at all? Am I playing or isn’t it just confusing? Perhaps, this is how we are now as people. The more we look for a point, the more we seem to be lost.
We all have our beginnings. We seek for experiences. Experiences are the in-betweens of every point of origin and to where we are heading. And experiences, they have no endings. It traverses every second, every minute, every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year. It connects different several points, much like lines that grips onto something, clinging on solid points of various façades of our innermost mind and spirits. Apparently solid, but having not one single formation or semblance at all. Those which can be blinding against bright lights and some repugnant in the dark. Some flourishing in abundance while others unkempt in indigence, clear and stark. Having no singular figures, forms are scattered in all directions. There are those in such great heights that make you dizzy but can also be found in deep undertows that make you drown. Those that move towards the left as the others turn right, those just going opposite paths.
How do we experience the in-betweens? Do tensions rest on the opposing sides or in the middle lines?
There is violence in silence. There is chaos in peace. There is something missing amidst aplenty. And if ever there is an end to this, do we head directly towards that point or do we respond to the middle call?
 In Filipino: Pitumpu’t pitong puting – excerpt from a tongue twister popular in childhood games
Staying does not equate to halting. If one is deliberately pausing or exploring a sense of permanence, it allows a deeper emotional intervention. It consents to a prosperity of emotions. Emotions cannot be forced, rather fully embraced and owned, it is something to be savored for better and well discerned observations. When perception gathers validations of current moments, it attempts to make sense of whatever is the present condition. Chronicling every shape, curve, and mold of our surroundings that build our connections; silhouettes that are meager, thick, and moderately-spaced; forms and lines that are straight, curved, and can sharply scathe. Repeating patterns that are contingent of the times and as if independent of its own motion and governance. Permanence, while often compared to convenience, may be considered as a way of making. Making sense in a recurring reconnaissance of chances that recognize our right to make and right to create.
How do we experience moments? Is it in seizing or in advancing our chances permitted by time?
There is rest in struggle. There is illness in wealth. There is something growing amidst the abyss. And if ever there is a chance for us, can we form and project truths that we still haven’t seen or yet perceived?
Our being and our lives come with a perpetual movement of our own history, present, and future. From our acts unraveled by times and moments we have navigated, we make sense of what was left behind, certainties we move with, and what events will unfold from it. It seems that history is being left behind as we move along with the present times, while we simultaneously try to open up possibilities of the future that has yet to come. The grounds where we move from and where we are headed to. This is our ground. These are our experiences marked by scratches, taints, and entrenchments. These are battle scars that serves as our solid and earnest foundations. These are the blots and strokes of warning and hope. This is the place where we strengthen our resolve as people. The place where paths cannot be defined by a definite line, but can be felt in the roots of our land – founded by our ancestors and cultivated by the sincerest of successors.
The common experience we have now maybe worse than any deadly disease. Yes, we might be in our darkest, but nature will continue to favor and possess its own fairness. And if we ever lose sight, we can always spare a thought that there are sparks amidst the absence of light. We’ll remain suspicious.
We, the makers, we make our state.