a monastery in the age of touchscreen

the relevance of a monastery in the age of touchscreen, sunscreen, facebook and ipod

Many, I suppose, are afflicted with compulsive facebook and/or multiply syndrome. I mean how many of us grab any chance we can get to check facebook or multiply any given minute? (and now with iphone and its applications, checking these sites can be done heartbeat after hearbeat). Minute after minute to check what one is doing (in the loo) or what one is up to after being dead bored in the last 30 minutes or where one plans to go in an hour. These social networking sites, if one happens to still get his hands on a newspaper and really read the paper (in my generation, who buys newspaper anyway when many a site update news in real time; but if we do, it's either the Saturday paper for weekend party updates at sundown or Sunday paper for job hunting), can make or unmake a techie, build or rebuild friendships, create or break opportunities or worse, in the news not so long ago, these sites become the centerstage for one kiddo who ended his life for the world to see (I'm not sure though if it was a social networking site. i'm too lazy to google it). May his soul rest in peace.

The idea of keeping ourselves updated makes us also vulnerable to keep everything public, therefore easily accessible. Some, if you notice in many youtube anonymous comments, goes beyond propriety and unto the harsh reality of digital mudslinging and washing dirty underpants in public. Who can stand these verbal, rather digital assault? The stress level of this generation was never imagined in our grandparent's time. On the other hand, the demands in workplaces in concrete jungles can be as toxic as it can get. And for the most part, spa, mindless sex and what-not are all but temporary relief.

Though I am not saying the monastery offers one eternal solution in this modern age but in this age of touchscreen and online dating it has become a refuge for the heartbroken, an unwed pregnant woman and many urbanite souls who wish to take a walk away from lala land--and gallivant inside the hundred hectare property where peace and quite and good food (for the body and spirit) are well-prepared. Though not as disconnected from the world as you might think (stop thinking it's warped in medieval period. the monk I know has a cellular phone and email), you will feel transported to a place where peace and quite and good food is enjoyed by all.

You just let silence speak to you, and if, at any rate, it becomes deafening, you can always have someone to speak with--the Benedictine priest, the monks, the kitchen hand, the gardener and if you may, God inside or outside the adoration chapel.

I came there to experience what most people who have visited the place rave about--a very solemn dawn mass with a heavenly choir singing. But in the end, it was not what I was seeking after all. In there, I found my peace and sense of self even for just a couple of days. I surrender myself to a life of prayer in the tradition of the Benedictine monks. I hate to admit it, but the silence that spoke to me from the hills of Bukidnon made tears well up my eyes--and flowed endlessly until I feel a certain feeling of lightness.

What the guidebook didn't warn me is that I'll fall in love with the place the moment its perfect rhythm pumps into my system-- so hopelessly in love I'll be coming here for an annual self-retreat year after year after year.











it's not what you're thinking...(whilst waiting for the pealing of the bell for Misa de Gallo)

Benedictine Monastery

Monastery of the Transfiguration
Barangay San Isidro, Malaybalay, Bukidnon




By the time Malaybalay City wakes up to the chill of a December morn, I was already at the yellow box waiting for a Valencia-bound multicab. Manong the receptionist--who is from San Isidro where the monastery is located--back at the inn gave me directions and habal-habal rate from the highway to the Church of the Transfiguration--the church is the last project of the late National Artist for Architecture Leandro Locsin. After a series of adventures and misadventures, I was already two barangays beyond the junction.





Here now is the reason why I decided to spend two days and a night and a dawn mass (with the renowned Bukidnon Boy's Choir singing) inside this hundred hectare property in the middle of nowhere. The uber-friendly rate--hold your breath--of Php600.00 daily (it's actually called donation; and includes your room and three board meals, two snacks and 24-hour free-flowing coffee; meals and coffee all prepared by the blessed hands of the Benedictine monks) is beyond me.

More on breakfast with the monks next time.

Meanwhile...here is day ONE, away from all the worries and cares of the world and deep into silence and SELF and into a life of prayer. For one moment that eventually turned into days, I was at peace with the world and myself; and the call (..should i answer soon?) to the monastic life reverberates once more..and this time it's louder..








If heaven is on earth, this must be IT!

A Peso Short and Kilometers Away from Home

In his two-week backpacking trip to Mindanao, RV Escatron woke up to the sound of surf, got addicted to surfing in Surigao, rekindled old ties, holed up in the Benidictine Monastery of the Transfiguration in Bukidnon to attend the Simbang Gabi which gave him goosebumps through and through (which by far, he considers a paranormal experience), reawakened a call to the monastic life which he thought have long died eight years ago in New Manila, and in Cagayan de Oro City, he met an award-winning literary writer who happens to be one of his favourite poet whose account he stumbled upon facebook and whom he thought had gone reclusive and quit writing poetry altogether in the last 15 years and finally tried to find spare coins to cross the last leg of the trip—the sleepy hometown of his childhood.





I stopped counting the days and lost track of my expenses the afternoon I boarded the Mindanao-bound plane. In less than an hour after the airbus taxied the runway, here I am in the middle of the airport parking area waiting for a lift C had arranged, last minute, whilst I was in the boarding area in Mactan.

The ride from Butuan to a town in the fringes of the Pacific Ocean would take four hours at best. What C did not prepare me for was the four hours would stretch to six when in the middle of nowhere two of the flat tires had to be pulled off the car. And seven hours later, I would have had my first decent meal of the day.

The town of Placer marks the midway drive to Cantilan town, both in Surigao Province. And the rough stretch of road begins here past the Red Mountain’s one-lane road—boulders on one side, deep gorge on the other. On a night trip, these mountains, all in red sans the foliage, glow with restraint the day before full moon.

Two weeks have seen me in a love affair with surfing and break my heart all the same. The weeklong backpacking trip began in Cantilan, off-Siargao island and it stretches to days. But even before I have yet to unpack my things, I have to pack them again to attend Cousin El-el's wedding four hours drive away, past the town of Tandag, in Marihatag town. This sleepy town, still in the Pacific rim, offers me much of the waves and small islands that dot in the horizon. As the bus navigated the snaking road, the waves clashing the shores and the surf lining in the distance reminds me that next year, in the whole length of December, I will ride them again with much control and less fear. Ultimately, water will become my second skin.

(first of 10 parts)