Tales Of The Wisp ~AYU INDAH

DIS-ENCHANTED

Lately, I've felt a bit estranged from myself. A spell of creative stupor has taken hold of me, and I feel ensnared by it, like being trapped in a fog. My usual flow of enchantment—the ability to transform my ethereal musings into something tangible—eludes me. Ideas come and go, like wisps of smoke I can almost grasp but never quite hold. I feel as if I've misplaced something vital...

Myself?

I don't know what to do about it. Perhaps I need a touch of magic to reignite the spark.

Life in this remote, rural location is, well, a challenge. The contrast to city life? Stark.

The days here stretch endlessly, each one a slow rhythm of sun and shade. And the nights? They seem to last forever, quiet and unyielding, as if time itself is reluctant to pass.

Jun and I mustered up the courage to embrace this lifestyle, but every day is a reminder of how different it is from the ease of California's urban flow. No malls, no cafes, no bars to unwind or meet up with friends. No spontaneous runs to the store for forgotten ingredients.

Back in California, when I ran out of something, we'd rush to the grocery store, in and out within minutes, with the comfort of knowing everything we could need was within reach. Here, you learn to make do. Grocery trips happen every other week, and our pantry motto has become: Compromise, Improvise, and Make Do. Creativity has become a necessity, a skill we've had to sharpen.

Traveling to the city is no easy escape, either. The moment you arrive, the heat slaps your face—murag gisagpa ko's kaiinit! It's a hellhole—crowds, noise, smog, the overwhelming cacophony of life in full throttle. The air burns with pollution, thick and suffocating. It makes you feel like you're drowning, or at least suffocating.

The relief of returning home is palpable. The moment we leave the city behind, the air shifts—cool, crisp, and clean. The peace wraps around me like a blanket, and the mountain breeze greets us, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. It's almost like breathing again.

Thank God for Jun, a senior network engineer, and our bespoke internet setup that bridges routers across the mountains, keeping us connected to the world, though we're far from it. It's a lifeline, of sorts. As much as I yearn for isolation, there's a small part of me that needs that tether to the wider world.

Are we still adjusting? Perhaps. The strangeness of these surroundings lingers, no matter how many times I sit on the porch and watch the seasons shift. But even with the occasional bewilderment, I can't help but appreciate the view—the sweeping valleys, the rolling hills, the way the light breaks across the land at dusk. The air exudes sweetness and freshness, and the water, fresh from a natural spring, is so clear and pure you could nearly drink it straight from the tap. It's a dream come true... yet sometimes, it feels more like a distant memory than a reality.

We came here to escape from it all. And yet, sometimes, I wonder if we've escaped too far. This place might be perfect for retirees, but we are not. I hope we made the right decision to move up here. The fear of regret lingers, like an unwelcome shadow, following me as I walk through the days.

So here I am, drifting aimlessly through this unfamiliar life, searching for something to anchor me.

One day, I decided to explore our property, wandering down the hill toward a marshy area with a spring pool, hidden among the overgrown grasses and thick, fragrant wildflowers.

"Ayaw adto, ma'am. Don't stray there," Nai warned, her voice carrying a note of urgency. "Mari-it diha." She said it was a place governed by spirits—both good and mischievous. Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place.

Local folks believe certain places—mari-it—are inhabited by these spirits, who protect the land, but also play tricks on those who don't respect them. Nai told me the chant that would keep them at bay: "tabi-tabi po." You say it aloud, three or more times—Pardon me, please, if I may pass—to show respect to the spirits who dwell there. If you don't, these beings might bring ailment, injury, or worse.

I find myself saying tabi-tabi po more often now, as if repeating the words can ward off more than just spirits—it somehow comforts me, too.

I was content, honestly, to mope and wallow, doing nothing but listening to Nai's quiet hums, learning from her, watching as she worked her own magic on the garden. The way her hands moved with purpose, her patience evident in every precise cut and measured motion. It made me feel safe somehow. Her presence, grounded and steady, felt like a tether to the life we had chosen.

When she'd finished trimming the overgrowth, Nai slid her sundang back into its wooden sheath, tied to her hip with a simple rope. She looked at me then, almost as if waiting for something.

Unexpectedly, she offered to show me something new.

"Naa pa ko tiempo, Ma'am," she said, her voice soft but clear. She still had time, she assured me. "Ganahan ka masayud unsaon pag luto sa iyahang dahon?"

She asked if I wanted to learn how to brew tea from Ayu Indah leaves. The question caught me off guard. Nai wasn't one to invite me into her rituals, her personal space so sacred, so quietly respected.

I hesitated, unsure. Her beady eyes didn't waver as she watched me, studying my face. There was a quiet weight in her gaze, as though she had already made her decision for me, waiting only for me to catch up.

Admittedly, ever since I learned of the vine's anti-aging properties and its reputation for maintaining youth, I'd felt intrigued—fascinated, even.

Why not? I told myself. It would be good to learn, to understand the right way to prepare it—their way. Who knew? Maybe this small ritual would bring something back to me.

"All right, Nai," I nodded, feeling a strange sense of anticipation stir within me. "I'd like that."