November 30 is the day I turn a year older. It is the best time for reminiscing about sweet memories of the year before, musing on all things that have been left undone, reflecting on friends who, in all my years of existence, have remained faithful and never changed and, most importantly, a time of facing a new chapter of my life.

In the Philippines, November 30 is a red-letter day. It commemorates the birthday of a brave, noble and distinct Filipino, Andres Bonifacio. He roamed the land a century ago, fought for our independence and became one of the country’s heroes. His dreams and aspirations of one day seeing and living a cheerful dawn of freedom and national unity came true. Had he not shed sweat and blood and led an uprising, along with other revolutionaries, against the Spanish government, I would have been deprived of the feeling a century of freedom could give.

In a third-world country where people breed like rabbits causing the population to grow to tens of thousands each year, anyone who knows the facts and figures must worry about the future state of the Philippines.

The Department of Education attempted, at the start of classes last year, to bring forward to the whole country the program on “sex education”. Such program was seen as a positive step by the United Nations Fund for Population Activities. It was supposedly be integrated to the general curriculum, beginning in the 5th grade, via subjects like Health, Filipino, Science, and Livelihood education. This way, schools could help bottle up the issue of overpopulation and educate students on the dangers of pre-marital sex, including “unwanted pregnancies”. However, everything went down the drain.

Dreaming is my constant companion. It has caused countless unexpected things to come my way, including my being a US neophyte and appreciating the scores of stuff most of my countrymen love about Uncle Sam.

Traffic, for instance. Traffic jams are virtually unknown in this place. There are lanes for bicycles – even for pets! No officer on sidewalks watching undisciplined pedestrians cross where crossing is prohibited.

I have yet to see an indigent child begging for food. More so, I have always felt this place as deception-free that a nightly walk along unlighted pathways is safe for this Filipino wanderer. No more worries that someone pops out from somewhere armed with an icepick to rob me of my valuables – money, phone, jewelries, shoes or even clothes. Rejoice! I am in a developed nation.

I counted the number of “HOW ARE YOUs” I received today. Nine. This doesn’t count the other “how are yous” I heard from students at the Union, the pathways, hallways and other possible places where people meet accidentally or intentionally.

I told a friend about this kooky feeling I am having against the greeting. “How are you” could easily qualify as the most overused word next to “hi” and “hello” in this part of the world.

Here is a personal rationale. When someone says “hi” or “hello”, the addressee is anticipated to either smile or wave or answer back with the same word. Example: Maria meets Peter. Maria says, “Hi, Peter.” Peter answers, “Hi, Maria.” Simple and quick communication. Conversation ends. Single words that when said demand a simple and snappy comeback.

Life’s miracles often appear in diverse packages. A bunch of them take place in a flashing instant when you wish for them, others occur over a life span, and few more others occur when you are not even anticipating them. Regardless of the type, it cannot be denied that a miracle brings in us a wonder and an admiration at something unfathomable. A miracle that defines a wonderful accomplishment is what we all fancy to happen for ourselves. But what truly aids a miracle to come to life, in my opinion, are: first, faith in God and second, goodwill.

For years I have taken note on little and rather enormous miracles in my life and in the lives of people I have personally known or stumbled upon day after day. Since I started writing, I have been broadcasting life stories that depict miracles as I recognize them to countless souls through magazines and dailies. The stories were unequivocally spirit-uplifting. They were the sorts that offered a smile to a frowning face or inspiration to the heartbroken. Stories from everyday miracles. Inspirations from everyday stories.

You have to read between the lines: “I dwell in SDSU. Life is WECOTA building”. My life as a student and as a research assistant in SDSU is dyed-in-the-wool to seeing the building daily, to marvelling its rooms and, most appropriately, to exploring the grace of the first floor and the basement (or the dungeon, as we fondly call it).

So what’s worthy of musing over a building – apart from the seeing, marvelling and exploring – with a massive pair of columns at the entrance and a lone window at the basement room that would not even open? Well, as a matter of fact, there are a million and one reasons to reminisce about. Allow me to highlight a few.

Online newspapers keep me updated with everything that is happening in the Philippines. As usual, there’s the unstoppable, never-dying politicking and, not to mention, the unethical behavior at all levels of the government. As a citizen, I would have wanted to interfere. However, mine is a voice so little for the over 80 million Filipinos. But on a positive note, I have the firm belief that my voice could become loud through my every article.

Before coming here, I was about to finish my Doctoral degree in Public Administration. Since it was so far-off from my engineering profession, people never failed to ask me if I would run for public office and what I would do if ever elected.

The squirrel has finally sniffed a treasure in the middle of the field. Unmindful of me observing only a few yards away, not even signaling an expression of dim surprise, it took something from the ground. Whether or not it was food, I didn’t know. It meant so much for the squirrel I could see how the nibbling went on for minutes.

This event took place – no, was seen – no, was experienced, that’s the right word, near the bell tower along Medary avenue, on a cold, drizzling Saturday morning on my way to Wal-Mart to shop something for lunch.