Humans, Spiders and Butterflies

Of Butterflies and Spiders

I have a fascination for spiders and butterflies. That fascination eventually turned into something more philosophical and personal. As it were, throughout my growing years, I gave meaning to their existence, beyond or deeper than it is biologically understood. I romanticize: nature must have communicated to me their meaning.

It all began in my neighborhood in Mabini St., Baguio City in the late 1950s and 1960s. At that time, there were only two buildings on the right side of Mabini St. from the vantage point of Session Road. The first and corner one to Session Road was the Philippine National Bank. The second, right at the center of Mabini St., was the Strike and Spare Lanes. (Now, Strike and Spare Lanes is Jack’s Restaurant.)

That second one was were I grew up. It was built from a mountain, which was dug. Its roof was leveled with the sorrounding mountain top. And all around the bowling building was a garden, which was regularly upkept by Manong Ben. The entrance to the bowling lane was entralling. From the street ground, you have to walk some three meters then climb seven steps to reach the inner sanctum, the waiting area or common space of the bowling lanes.

Imagine on both sides of the entrance is the garden, terraced into two layers, and with each terrace daftly filled with callalilies, with white flowers graciously sprouting from them. This was the home of the green caterpillars. And among the leaves of the callalilies was were the caterpillars weave their coccoon; to eventually emerge as butterflies – white ones; yellow ones; pink ones, all beautiful.

Imagine too the sorrounding mountain. It was festooned with sunflowers (marapait), ferns (marapako and lanot) and tall grass (ru-ut) and dandelions (blow-blow). This was the home of the spiders, the ants (ku-tun), the grasshoppers (du-dun) and various kinds of bugs (abal-abal). This was the landing ground of all those little tweeting birds. This was also the neighborhood "field of dreams." During those times, there were no malls. Everything came natural!

On countless ocassions, the boys and girls in the neighborhood come together to play on the mountain slopes. A favorite is the spider game. We go searching for spiders in the marapait forest and put them in empty match boxes. We know were to search. Usually, we look for the silk “saput” web as a tell-tale sign. We follow where it leads which is usually a crumpled brown marapait leaf with some saput in it. When we have gathered some ten spiders; we then pit spiders of the same size to a kin-ninit iti si-it or "duel in a stick."

Each spider was placed on both ends of the stick. When they walk to the center, they have their duel (kin-nit). Usually, the one who makes the first bite wins; the prey falls down but is saved from falling down by his web (saput). But as he climbs up; he faces another spectre. The winner weaves a coccoon around the looser. And that is the end of the match.

Spider X and Violet Butterfly

As the neighborhood boys and girls grew up, our beloved mountain was also leveled to the ground. Our “field of dreams” – the marapait, marapaku, dudun, butterflies and spiders - had to give way to cmmercial buildings and eateries. Except for the building, there was no remnant; not even the original Strike and Spare Lanes. I suppose the fascination for spiders and butterflies among my buddies also stopped. Not for me! It related to a particular incident.

Once, in a solitary visit to the mountain, I decided to lie down idly among the grass, to gaze at the sky. It was peaceful! It was quiet! I was calm! But as I shifted my gaze from the sky to the sorrounding quiet grass, I came to a presence. Just by my left side, was a spider web with, what we called Spider X, right at the center. It was fearfully beautiful, with its feet forming an X extending from its yellow-orange colored body. I was shocked out of my reverie. A spider X, among the neighborhood was foreboding. It was supposed to be poisonous and must be left untouched. And as I sat up; there were more shocks. There were some seven more webs with spider X’s sorrounding my little grass space. I was right in the middle of spider X territory. I did not even notice them the moment I lay down. Imagine my quiet fear! I couldn’t even shout! I just have to pray, to be spared of the onslaught of the Spider X domination.

Sometime after the incident, I realized that the spiders were not after me. They were just there as a natural event. Soon, they were gone; along with our field of dreams. Since then, I couldn’t find any spider X in Baguio City any more. But since then too, I used spiders as a gauge for events in my life. A big spider at an inappropriate place, such as my bedroom or bathroom signaled an impending danger. I would be extra-careful with my dealings with people. On the other hand, a butterfly that fluttered around me then resting at the palm of my hand or at my shoulder signaled that someone was taking care of the situation. These signals of impending danger or good tidings never failed; I trusted them like I trusted my instinct.

Two significant events in my life depicted what I mean.

In early 1995, I brought my spouse to the hospital for an operation; her right breast was removed. That same night, her dad was rushed in the same hospital. He died the following morning due to complications from old age (he was more than 80). During All Saints Day in November 1995, my spouse visited her dad’s grave. It dawned on her that her dad was forever gone. Her heart sank and all the courage she had in fighting her disease went like the wind. She fainted and stayed in the hospital. During her last day in the hospital, my kids and I had a most wonderful experience in the picnic grounds. We saw a butterfly fluttering about, carrying a big spider. My spouse died three days later at home.

In 1999, I married again. In 2000, when my new partner and I went up to Baguio for the holidays, we were met by an array of sunflowers and pine trees along the way, together with the fresh and cool breeze. When we reached home, a beautiful violet butterfly took time to flutter about. Then it gently rested on my outstretched palm. To my spouse’s wonderment, it fluttered again and rested on hers. In that fleeting moment, I felt my mom.

Hindsight: Butterflies and Spiders

I had always compared human living with that of a butterfly. One goes though life first as a caterpillar, trying to find meaning while sliding and inching one’s way among the leaves and flowers of the life’s garden. Then, as one encounters a major life crisis, such as a death in the family, a separation or simply a mid-life, one withdraws from the world and builds a coccoon. After some period of reflection and discernment, one breaks free from the darkness of one’s self-imposed isolation. He or she then breaks free as a fully human, fully alive person and flutter about like the beautiful butterfly.

I had also compared spiders with some foreboding. It is a predator. It catches its prey in its web and builds a coccoon around its unwilling victim. Depending on its web span, it reigns supreme. Some humans are like that.

Of late, I have come to view things differently. Although the butterfly is the hope for the flowers; the catterpillar eats up the leaves and flowers as sustenance. On the other hand, the spider and its web is the natural protection for the leaves and the flowers; its kind ensures a bountiful harvest. Both butterfly and spider form part of the grand ecosystem. They are vital to plant and animal life, like any other life form.

I am not afraid of spiders anymore. In a globalize world, the Internet is a global web that captures the collective knowledge of humanity. It links everyone. It also permits one to go back and reckon with his or her past as a take off for the present and future.

At a deeper level, an invisible web catches those who are not ready; that is, those who are fearful that their material possessions may be removed from them. But the invisible web likewise permits those who are prepared to proceed to a grander, more sentient life. The worldwide invisible web is the specter that looms; it is the “guardian of the threshold” which permits only those who broke their cocoon to enter.

At that instance, the butterfly is really the spider in its most glorious form.

A Legacy from Dad

Goodbye Dad

In May 18, 1993, dad celebrated his 63rd birthday in St. Louis Hospital in the company of my brother and his family. Because he was in the company of his grandchildren (on my brother’s side), dad had a resurgence of spirit. All was well, my brother thought, and he and his family left the following day for the US with a light feeling. But that was dad’s last upsurge of life. He died three days later, May 21, with only an aunt by his bedside.

Dad had a fatal stroke in 1990, before the devastating earthquake that hit in July 16. This also came at the heels of the death of my mom in 1987. It was triggered when he was informed that he must soon retire from being the Manager of the Strike and Spare Lanes. It had hurt him; it crushed his ego. Aside from family, being manager was his life; it sustained him and us.

But despite being dead to his career, he survived for three years more. I suppose he was sustained by another lifeline – his family. He wanted to ensure that family – my brother and I - was secure before he moved on. I wasn’t around when he died. I had my own carreer to sustain; I was in Tagum, Davao del Norte for the Cooperative Congress of the region.

When dad was buried, I was there, also burying with him all my hurt, in the quiet of the Baguio cemetery. I learned later through my sister-in-law that dad celebrated his last birthday with one question: “Did I fail my youngest son?”

Had I been in his deathbed, sharing his birthday, I could have said: “No dad, you did not fail. You gave your best. Whatever happened to me was the outcome of my choice. It could have been better. But I chose to live my life the way I saw fit. And yes! Thank you dad for all the loving and caring you and mom had shared with us.”

Dad’s Story

Dioscoro, dad, was a “Waray” from Tunga in Leyte Province. In contrast to my mom who left to seek greener pastures, my dad left because of disagreements in the home.

Dad had interesting anecdotes about our ancestry. We belonged to a family of activists and non-conformists. My great-great grandfather was part of the rebellion against Spain (a "Katipunero"). My grandfather was a teacher, with revolutionary ideas. During the war, a great uncle literally ate pages of the Bible to survive in the mountains (I suppose this took care of both biological and spiritual needs). There was a time when my grandmother had to change dad’s (and his two siblings’) family name to her maiden name, to ensure safe conduct from the law. To cap it all, my dad took great pride that a street in Carigaraya was named after my grandfather.

Dad was the second of three children (of a girl and two boys from my grandmother’s first marriage), from which my brother and me owe our family name. My grandfather died when my father was pre-teen. His troubles started when my grandmother married again and had seven other children.

Dad claimed that he was a bright student and was in third year Commerce when his stepfather asked him to stop schooling in favor of his favorite son. That triggered the war between dad and my grandmother. From dad’s viewpoint, his dad, my grandfather, left him enough fortune to sustain his education. Because of what dad felt unfair, in 1949, he left for Manila. Although dad loved grandma, the bitterness was unresolved till the day she died in the 1980s. But because he left home, he was to become my dad.

Unfulfilled Dreams

When dad decided to come up to Baguio in 1952 and at 22 years old, he wanted a simple life for himself and his family. He also wanted his own house. Once, when I brought him to my place, he was in reverie. He expressed his regret in passing off an opportunity to own his house and lot along Fil-Am compound. Then the place was still forested with no house standing. Now the place was buzzing with houses and people. Nonetheless, he felt contentment that his two sons have their own respective abodes.

Dad did not fulfill his dream of finishing college. But he saw his dream fulfilled in his two boys. By inculcating in us the value of education and investing in our schooling, he set us to the path of self-reliance. Kuya Rudy finished his degree in Economics and his wife was sustained through her Masters in Public Administration (aside from her finishing her nursing degree with her parent’s support). My brother and his family migrated to the US armed with the necessary skills and knowledge to live a life of prosperity. After my undergraduate course, I went on to sustain my own Masters degree and many other special courses. I reached the height of my career because dad started me off.

Dad did not fail. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It was just that he anchored his dreams on his kids. Unfortunately for him, I responded with numbness, being caught in a whirlpool of hurts and struggles in my own life. Fortunately for him, he saw the prospects for the good life of his grandchildren. Dad died a pauper, but he had left a legacy for prosperity for the generations after him.

On Dying

A fact of life is the inevitability of death. There is a time for every living thing – a birth, a growing up, a letting go and a death.

Everyday, one also hears and knows of people who had passed away. It is read in the papers or watched on TV. But, like the death of flowers, it is not a bother if that someone who died is personally not known.

When the Twin Towers in New York collapsed due to the plane crashes maneuvered by terrorists, most felt grief and sympathized with America. But, except for those who have relatives among those who died, the heightened emotions of people were fleeting. They may have sworn to high heavens. But that is all. One would not feel as much the loss from a catastrophe that happened to someone else somewhere. Soon, people will also forget what happened on September 11, 2001. Soon, the next generations will just read about the incident in history books, like this generation remembered the World Wars because they had to be memorized for the school exams.

It would be different when someone dear had died. Because one had given meaning to and shared his or her being with that departed person, a great loss is felt, like a part connected to the beloved had been estranged. When one becomes attached to something or someone to the point that one becomes dependent, the death would be more devastating. One’s world would cave in; at times, wishing death itself.

It would also be different when one must confront fears about death and dying. This is especially true when one feels the need to complete a mission in this world. One would cling to dear life; praying and cursing at the same time. But ready or not ready, each one will die anyway. One might as well be prepared to die anytime.

A Celebration of Life

The message of death for those who were left behind is to “move on.” That is part of the cycle of life. The fact is that all those born during the late 1800s had already died or were preparing to die. A sizable number died during the two world wars. A sizable number from our generation also died of diseases, like AIDS. Their time was up and they are now somewhere else, except in our three dimensional world.

On a broader perspective, death may mean not only physical death. It may be a release from something worn out and an opened door for something new.

Intuitively, the living flows with the seasons. One feels wonderful when the flowers bloom in May and December, then just simply coast along when the flowers wilt (to bloom again during the next flowering season). Everyday, one wakes up to the sunrise and withdraws in sleep after the sunset, to dream the dreams, either under the moonlight or not. The following day, one again wakes up to another sunrise, closing the doors of the past. Nothing is ever quiet the same, except when one clings to it.

But it cannot be denied that Kuya and I were following the footsteps of our parents. I suppose, the human values of parents (not necessarily the cultural habits) are passed on until the next generation. This is evolution in progress, humanity in the process of becoming.

My First Ibaloi Biology Teacher

During my early years in the 1960s and outside my immediate family, Manong Ben (Manong is Ilocano for sir) taught my first lessons in Biology and life. A native of Benguet province, he belonged to the Ibaloi tribe, an "Igorot," that is, of the "people of the mountains," the Cordilleras of northern Luzon.

He had worked in Strike and Spare Lanes, along Mabini St., for as long as I can remember. He was the gardener of the bowling, taking care of the lilies, the roses, daisies and chrysanthemums.

He taught me the importance of sunlight and rain in the life cycle of plants, the earthworm in soil preparation, and the spider in protecting plants from grasshoppers. He explained and showed how a caterpillar turned into a butterfly and how the butterfly helped propagate the roses. I had since then, loved gardening.

More than a gardener, Manong Ben was human. For me, he was patient, kind and understanding. He was also content, with simple dreams. I suppose, he left his hometown to start a new life in the city. He found a home in Strike and became a family member. He was surrogate mom or dad, when both of my parents were not around. He picked us up from school when my older brother and me were stranded due to the sudden downpour (from a typhoon that arrived earlier than expected). He carried along our umbrellas and raincoats, so we all could brave the rain.

Manong Ben never finished high school. But we respected him, even until my elder brother and I finished high school, and went all the way to finish college. Why? His words were wisdom, with the force of what is natural. He instilled common sense, even as the world put a premier value on education as a means to development. He also had a quiet dignity and humility, rare in a world where worldly ambitions – fame, fortune and power, were considered the measures of success.

Scientists, as objectively as they could, had probed deep into space and had analyzed the smallest particle of matter. They also figured out that life forms have a common denominator, the DNA. But they have not proven the existence of the soul. Why? The soul is not something that is observed; it is something that is touched with one’s heart.

Scientists were objective, devoid of feelings, in their approach. But they all agree that the quanta, virtual reality, is influenced by the observer, that there is really nothing completely objective in the world.

Manong Ben is no scientist. But all it took for him was to touch what is real through his heart. He felt the world through the flowers and the insects in his garden. He poured out his soul as he sprinkled water in his plants.

Manong Ben felt for us, like he would water his garden.

I suppose, having a heart and a soul are the two greatest lessons in living as a human being. Like culture, they are intangible; without physical form. But unlike culture, they are natural.

Incidentally, Manong Ben fell in love with a house-help of Lola Dolores, the matriarch-owner of Strike and Spae Bowling Lanes. He saved his hard-earned pay to send her to nursing school. When she finished, she married someone else. Manong Ben was so heart-broken until he left, which was soon after his garden was replaced by a two-storey commercial building. (Strike and Spare is now Jack's Restaurant.)

He came back to visit, some 10 years later, in 1973, when I was already married, with a daughter. He became a proud cooperative manager in his hometown. He remained human, with a quiet dignity.

I never saw Manong Ben again. But his lessons in biology and life remained with me. To this day, everytime i meet an Ibaloi, i am reminded of him. I only have respect for the tribe that nurtured my love for the earth.

How i wish, i have the native genes. I would certainly shout out: "I am proud to be Ibaloi! I am proud to be Igorot! I belong to the "People of the Mountain!"