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How do you mend a broken heart (with apologies to the Beegees) - As soon as I laid my eyes on her, I knew right away something was wrong, strangely, sadly, and as it turned out, irreversibly wrong. I met Dely recently at a funeral of a relative in Magdalena, Laguna.
Magdalena is an quaintly beautiful old town, quiet, isolated, almost off the beaten track, tucked away along the foothills of Mt. Banahaw, just off the more famous or popular towns of Pagsanjan, Lumban, Paete, etc., about an hour from Manila, as the crow flies. Since it lies almost at the center of the province, it can be accessed from the west via the South Expressway, exiting at Calamba and on to Sta. Cruz through Los Banos, Bay, and Pila; or, you can take the more pleasant and scenic route on the east, away from the madding crowd, traffic and pollution, passing through the eastern towns of Rizal and along the lakeshores of Laguna Bay, through Antipolo, Teresa, Baras, Tanay, and on to Siniloan, Pangil, Pakil, Paete, Kalayaan, Lumban, and Pagsanjan. Many of these towns have their own historic, cultural and scenic attractions, such as, Daranak Falls in Baras, the woodcarvers of Paete, Lake Caliraya in Kalayaan, the Pahiyas in Lumban, and the world-famous Pagsanjan Falls.
As usual, I took the scenic route, a good two and a half-hour drive, as a senior citizen drives in his old, almost reliable 1979-model car. As in most little towns, the people are friendly and welcoming. As soon as you ask for directions and tell them you’re there to attend a funeral, they’ll give you a whole history of the town as well as a recent, polite biography of the deceased relative. They speak fluently and almost poetically, with a peculiar “Batangas” accent like everybody in the Tagalog-speaking provinces.
Of course, there’s not much business to speak of in a town like Magdalena. Most have to leave to seek the proverbial greener pastures. They come home only for special occasions, like their town fiesta (sometime in July on the feast of their Patron Saint, Mary Magdalene), baptisms, weddings, and of course to live out their days and be buried there. Those who stay behind have time to keep track of each other and everybody else. Our host showed us an old picture of their elementary class of more than 60 year ago and could point to all those who have died in the meantime.
They also have time to repair and restore their ancestral homes and keep them in good livable condition. The town is clean and peaceful and has been repeatedly cited for being so by provincial officials. It is also known as the adopted town of the movie king, FPJ who reportedly made no less than 40 films in the town, one of them in fact named after the town itself.
Speaking of which, you could have made a movie of Dely. It seems every town or city if it has to have character has one like her. I have seen them in the streets of San Francisco, especially around Union Square and the so-called Tenderloin District, in Greyhound bus depots, in the subways of New York.
But there was something different, almost surreal about Dely. She was well-dressed in what would qualify as a peasant costume, almost like Cinderella ready to attend a grand ball. She just sat there quietly among the grieving women, in a prayerful pose and not talking to anybody. The next day at the funeral I saw her again, this time dressed even more elegantly and sporting a red parasol (no, not an umbrella), fully made-up and intently observing the proceedings without uttering a word nor disturbing anybody or getting in the way, much less trying to call attention to herself.
You might even say she reflected or represented the town. Here she was, Magdalena, a sad Magdalena, a simple, quiet, lonely Magdalena. I approached her and asked her name. She looked me straight in the eye and gave me her full name. I asked if I could take her picture. She gladly obliged. I showed her how she looked on the camera monitor. She seemed well-pleased.
Everyone calls her Dely. I would simply call her Magdelena, or Dely, for short. The folks here say that one day, someone had broken her heart … and not all the king’s horses, nor all the king’s men, could mend Magdalena’s heart again. Dely, someone has broken your heart, you poor soul. But they cannot break your spirit. Live on, kindred soul. -jamesdlansang
(pls. look up photo)
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womenindevelopment wrote on Jan 19, '09
I have no words appropriate enough to describe Dely. She is beyond words. The way she fixed herself is definitely a statement of how she feels inside. I could see sadness, even irony, and indescribable agony hidden in very thick layers of bright colors.
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Kuya James, once in a while we need this kind of story - the basics - especially in a period like we're in now. Hearts may melt. Securities may lose value. Pockets may be perforated. Nothing may remain but apparent irrelevance and peaceful co-existence with the pavement. How does one resuscitate dignity and dreams?
I'm reminded of the formula for handling people: Listen to the other person's story. Listen to the other person's full story. Listen to the other person's full story first. And who can forget the Desiderata? -- "Listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story". Maraming salamat po. |
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pcsokaka said
 So delicate...Dely...is...so so delicate...and so is her spirit (as as every individual's spirit is) ...Yes, she is her own statement. 
Kaka, you display a sensitivity that reveals your true character: you see, think and feel with your heart. Take good care of that heart - it appears to be overused.
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