Closer to the clouds

“Hurry up, Mom!” Gabriel yelled from somewhere above me. His shirt looked like a tiny blue dot against a landscape of rustling coconut trees, palm fronds, and oversized banana leaves.

“Don’t go too far ahead, buddy!” I said back, my voice desperately traveling up the side of the mountain as my body did the same. One was quicker than the other.

“Ok, but hurry up!”

Hurrying was the last thing I wanted to do, unlike Gabriel and a handful of his cousins who were already half way up the mountain. It was partially because climbing one step after another on a steep mountain wasn’t something an almost 40 year old “hurried” to do, but also because the pure, untouched beauty of the landscape around me asked me quietly to take my time. It wasn’t often that I found myself in the middle of a tropical Southeast Asian rainforest, absolutely drenched in sweat, but also absolutely determined to find myself to the top. My five year old son still had a bit to learn about savoring the moment.

Just a few moments before, my family and I were dropped off in front of someone’s homerun storefront, which sold tons of candy, snacks, and bottles of water (which I would later realize came in clutch at the end of the pilgrimage). We were heading to Monte Cueva, a church within a cave, at the top of the mountain. As we walked past the storefront and down a narrow alley, I didn’t know where my cousins were leading us. We left Maasin City and its barangays behind as the small street quickly opened up to an expansive tropical jungle that stood before us, and all around us. I stood at the base of the mountain and looked up, unable to see the sun that waited for me at the top.

I feel like my cousins downplayed the extent of this hike, but with my neck stretched back and looking up at the mountain we were about to climb, I found myself with little choice except to start walking. They told me it would be just climbing up some steps, but didn’t seem to mention it would probably take 45 minutes to do so. It’s fine. When in Rome.

For all the kids in our group, it was a walk in the park. For my cousins who were born and raised in the Philippines, the thick humidity didn’t seem to phase them. The sweat that coated my forehead and seemingly every other inch of my body thought otherwise. But step after step, we climbed up the zig zagged path towards the top of the mountain, holding onto the railings, watching for cracks in the rocks beneath me.

And then there was my Mom, the reason why we were all there.

“Are you doing ok, Mom?” I asked, as she held onto the railing with one hand, and as one of my cousins softly held on to her other arm.

“Yea, I’m ok,” she said, with a beautiful smile on her face. She looked up towards what seemed like a never ending set of stairs, and in that moment I felt her resiliency more so than any other point in my life. It didn’t matter that she was 80 years old, it didn’t matter that she had asthma, and it didn’t matter that she had literally just gotten over a bout of pneumonia the week before. There was simply nothing stopping her in that moment, and I will forever be able to harness her strength in times when doubt tries to win.

And so she climbed, one step after another. And so did we all, until we reached the top of the Maasin mountain, where the most captivatingly quiet cave waited for us. The kids wandered in first, since they had already been at the top of the mountain before any of the adults. Gabriel, being the youngest of the group, even sensed how special that church was, as he hushed his usually boisterous voice to match the stillness and serenity in the air.

I walked down a handful of stairs and into the church, carved into the cave. The air immediately felt cooler on my skin, the bright tropical sun disappeared outside as a subtle dimness fell on us, in a way that only a cave could do. Rows of unoccupied pews lined the space and faced the altar, a kind of altar I hadn’t ever seen and probably will never see again in my life. Directly atop the altar, a circular opening in the ceiling of the cave shone natural light straight down, illuminating the area in, for a lack of better words, a heavenly kind of way.

Gabriel and his cousins walked around the perimeter of the church, looked at a few shrines lit up by soft lights. I sat down alone on one of the pews, and even though my mixed relationship growing up with a Catholic mom and a Jewish dad left me a little unsure about religions, there was without a doubt the fact that I could absolutely feel the Universe take a seat beside me, and asked me to sit a while.

And so I did. 

The few moments of pure stillness I felt in that church, carved into that cave, on the top of a mountain overlooking my Mom’s hometown, is one of those feelings that will never escape me. The thick humidity from outside was easily replaced with a cool crispness from within, the rustles of banana leaves in the breeze were easily replaced with an otherworldly sense of quietness. All thoughts escaped, my breath eased into place, my Mom sat by my side. I’d climb a thousand more mountains to feel that overwhelming connection to the Universe again, the closest thing to purity I’d ever felt.

We took our share of family photos in the cave, Gabriel jogged around the pews the way a five year old would do in an empty church, and eventually we were greeted by the reliable Philippine sun once again outside. We climbed up just a few more stairs to the very top of the mountain, to a viewing deck that opened up to what seemed like all of Southern Leyte. The midmorning sun bounced off the sea, coconut trees stretched from one side of the panorama to the other.

My Mom looked down at the barangays that raised her, with Gabriel by her side. The moment asked us to stay a while, and I was in no rush.