DAYBREAK

DURING a brief vacation in my hometown in Ilocos early this month, I forced myself to wake up before first light just to witness the familiar panorama of dawn in the barrio. Though I felt sluggish after an exhausting eight-hour trip from Manila the previous day, I braved the chilly morning air to watch the yellow strands of light thread above the mountain range to the east. I observed the breaking sun with an intensity that made me feel as if I hadn't truly seen it in years.

It is remarkably easy to fall in love with the dawn. I always do. My eyes became transfixed by the radiating pink and faintly golden plumage of daybreak, which felt like a beautiful lady smiling enticingly, or a mother reaching out with rosy, open arms to dispel the restlessness and grogginess of a tired soul. It is the kind of affection you miss deeply, though sleepless nights and hectic obligations often cause you to forget she exists. Yet, the moment you attempt to reach her by traversing the path of the night, you look east and find her exactly as she was before.

There is a profound solemnity to her presence, a quiet space where only the light moves—shifting slowly from the gray of a withering night to streaks of vibrant orange and yellow, culminating in a silver shaft breaking through the clouds. I can only experience this kind of lingering, meditative moment when I am back at our old family place in Nanguneg. Unlike my house in a Bulacan subdivision, where my view of the eastern horizon is entirely blocked by a row of houses on elevated ground across the street, our house in the barrio offers an unobstructed, frontline view of that classic Homeric "rosy-fingered dawn."

This time, I was treated to another brief glimpse of how our old neighborhood comes alive with a soft, lyrical rhythm. Just after daybreak, the crowing of the roosters began to fade, serving as an organic cue for the sweet chirping of birds hidden in the foliage. This avian chorus was soon backed by the rhythmic rattle of animal-drawn carts on the side roads, transporting busy farmers out to their fields. Early-rising chickens worked the dirt to find a morsel to peck, while a lazy cat stirred on a nearby window ledge. The cool air drifted by, carrying a rustic sweetness mingled with the faint, comforting scent of dried leaves burning nearby.

My mother was up well before the rest of us, moving quietly around the kitchen and setting a pot on the stove for the family breakfast. The traditional earthen stove was already alive with radiant embers by the time I joined my father for a cup of steaming coffee.

We always have plenty to talk about. Lately, however, our conversations have gravitated toward my bar exams, my plans after resigning from my current job, how the kids are coping, and the perceived lethargy of my professional career.

It was my late grandfather who trained my siblings, my cousins, and me to be early risers, even on weekends. Through him, I validated the long-held belief of the old folks that good things are bound to happen if you are up at dawn and work hard every day. It echoes the sentiment of John Ruskin: "Let every dawn of morning be to you as the beginning of life." For the elders of the barrio, it was considered a bad omen for a person to be struck by a shaft of sunlight while still snoring in bed.

Growing up in the barrio, the familiar, industrious noise of farmers preparing for a day in the fields was my natural alarm clock. On weekends, immediately after slipping out of bed, my brothers and I would head over to our grandfather’s yard just across the street to join the old man for the heavy labor ahead—whether it was planting, weeding, or harvesting the produce of the soil.

We would move out into the fields, braving the dew-drenched morning. It was imperative to complete our tasks before the sun grew punishingly hot. Right as the sun cleared the rim of the mountains, my grandmother, an aunt, or one of our female cousins would arrive bearing a basket of breakfast.

We would feast under the shade of a camachile tree on newly steamed rice paired with traditional dishes: steamed camote tops or inihaw na talong (grilled eggplant) served with a dipping sauce of bagoong garnished with fresh onions and sliced tomatoes; fried or smoked fish; comforting tinola; or even a fresh "jumping salad" (shrimps served raw and still twitching). The absolute smoothness of the dawn, a cup of hot coffee, and that sumptuous breakfast gave us all the motivation we needed to work. And once our tasks were finished, the rest of the day belonged entirely to us boys for play.

A poem I wrote during my freshman year at a university in Vigan spoke of this exact beauty, addressing the daybreak as Aurora—the Roman goddess of the dawn (often associated with the Greek Eos). It stands as a testament to just how deeply smitten I have always been by the charm of that grand lady of the morning.

I am reminded now of the deeper lessons the sunrise teaches us. It is always the absolute beginning of everything, a clean slate where anything is possible. It is a fleeting window when the world feels entirely peaceful and full of promise. When I look at the eastern sky at twilight with an eager eye, the start of a new day fills me with excitement for all that is to come, reminding me to expect a fresh start for every single day of my life.

I intended this latest homecoming to be a simple opportunity to relax, but instead, it has granted me a new beginning. I must carry a faith like the one Rabindranath Tagore described: “Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”

I only seem to remember these vital truths when I am here. Back in Bulacan, it is a rare thing indeed for me to ever see the breaking dawn.