Namamahay
Notes on fermentation, finding home, and the ever-morphing self
The past four years have been a pivotal period in my search for home; I lugged my baggage from Sydney to Palawan, to Manila (with a short-lived stay in La Union) which ultimately ended in heartbreak. This era of yearning has given me enough breakthroughs and breakdowns to realize that home, just like any other concept that we think requires a grand pursuit, is not a location.
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Namamahay is a Tagalog term that means having difficulty sleeping in an unfamiliar place. Settling back into my hometown has proved to be more taxing than I anticipated. I’ve been erring on the edge of memory. I find myself getting lost whenever I’m running errands on the other side of town. I would gape at ongoing construction sites and struggle to remember what used to be there. I’ve forgotten street names and business addresses but I can show you the spot where I rescued an abandoned kitten, or where my kindergarten crush lived. I linger in different rooms of our house, unable to register the newness thrown in with familiarity; a lot has changed yet so much remains the same.
The house that I grew up in is fairly large with a beautiful garden, situated on the quietest corner of our village. Early mornings are my favorite time of day. The same sounds of my childhood wake me: roosters crowing at the crack of dawn, a loud motorcycle zooming by, a potpot horn indicating a pandesal or binatog vendor, and the booming “TAHOOO” which is always a delight to hear. I open my eyes to the same four walls albeit rousing for different reasons. Even with horrid sleep, I get up and prepare for whatever is in store for me.
The hours between 5 to 8 AM are dedicated to meal prep, breakfast, and school drop-off. Our morning routine has become so predictable that everything seems to be done on autopilot. My weekday officially starts when the little one is fed and out the door. Outside the campus gates, I make sure to say I love you! Have a nice day!, sometimes I’m met with enthusiasm, sometimes just an “Ok”. That’s fine, M isn’t the talkative kind. The dynamics at home have changed since Z transitioned to a self-directed learning program. While M is at school, my guard remains up the entire day in anticipation that Z will need guidance at any given moment.
The lines between parent mode and self mode are blurred. I’m grateful for each second of alone time I get. Lately, I’ve been wondering: How much of the self are we allowed to show people? Can we truly be seen by others when we are so many people bundled into cascading layers? How much can they unravel? I’ve sacrificed so much of my individuality because of a pre-conceived responsibility that I had a role to maintain in people’s lives. Mom. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Girlfriend. Etc. Which me am I supposed to portray when the only self I know is ever-changing?
I started writing this draft in the third week of September. Since then I’ve filed an LOA from school, turned 32, and finally made the long overdue decision to leave that house. In the middle of adjusting to a new (old) environment, I went into survival mode. My journals have been untouched in a box I’m not ready to unpack. Every other day I propped open my laptop and found no words. Multiple messages in my inbox read: “Are you okay?”, and I reply with the only response I know to that question:
I will be.
It took a while for me to gather my thoughts. The truth is I’m great at starting over. I’m fond of new beginnings. I thrive in uncertainty because I meet it with excitement. What can I make of this blank page? My fatal flaw is not knowing when to start anew — I give too many chances, I hold on to hope. I’m only human. A dear friend once told me, “If you don’t move, the universe will force you to”. In my stubbornness, I found myself guilty of perpetuating a cycle that no longer served me.
Moving houses also came with the commitment to cut familial ties that showed no end in wounding me. I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I felt so much loss in removing myself from an environment that was unhealthy for me. I realized that I wasn’t only grieving the death of said relationships, I was also mourning the version of me that I left behind. She cradled me when I needed to be held but I now have to pry myself out of her grasp. Growing pains signal the need for readjustment — detaching from the self that I knew and relearning how to navigate life with a different purpose.
An ache, no matter how painful, is our body’s way to call for action. Acknowledging discomfort should be seen as an indication of growth. I tried hard to conform to these roles demanded of me and faulted myself for not performing them well. In reality, I had already outgrown the space that I was given. The version of me that is expected to show up is no longer the person I’m becoming. I needed to uproot myself from an atmosphere that had no capacity for collaboration or expansion.
A newfound appreciation for fermentation has been helping me through this critical shift. I admittedly stayed away from fermenting for as long as I could, simply because I was hardwired to a system of convenience and automaticity. Stillness scares me. This is also the reason why I didn’t pursue a career in pastry; the silence in cold kitchens makes my mind unbearably loud. So instead, I taught myself how to thrive in chaos.
Having no proper kitchen or energy to cook, yet wanting to challenge myself with a new skill, I started making kombucha. I checked on my jars religiously and awed at the magic that was slowly happening. Every bubble formed felt like hiccups in my heart, each strand of yeast danced with the promise of new life. The frustration I felt in doing nothing gradually turned into a lesson of patience. I have to trust in good faith knowing that I did my best and the outcome is now out of my control.
The temperament nature of kombucha fascinates me. Aside from the high caliber of ingredients used, it requires an environment where it can blossom — undisturbed in a cool location with proper ventilation. In the process of moving, one of my jars acquired mold. I researched obsessively in hopes that I could still save it but after many stages of denial and bargaining, I decided it was best to toss out the entire batch. SCOBY, starter, and all.
As an anxious first-time brewer, I anticipated the chance of contamination. Tears were dramatically shed over my culpable naivety thinking that my hyperfixation on said fizzy juice would keep me distracted from my personal misfortunes. Before this mold consumed me, I had already established a SCOBY hotel with five spare pellicles. This reminded me that I can start over because I have more than I need. As of writing, I’ve made 7 gallons total.
As if mirroring my new hobby, my feelings have also been fermenting these past three months. In the middle of unloading decades worth of physical and emotional baggage, coping with loss, and recentering my life, I struggled with the feeling of overwhelming lack. Whenever I find myself in this dark place of (not being enough) (not having access to support) (not having the love I want) envy, I remind myself:
I have more than I need.
The pandemic was the only time when uncertainty felt like impending doom to me. My friends started growing sourdough starters during lockdown and I festered in jealousy. I wish that I had a quirky pandemic hobby too. While most were busy baking bread and dabbling into new interests, I was consumed by fear. I was in a different country with limited support. My envisioned future was on hold as I read the glaring headline: “Australia Says Goodbye to the World’s Longest Boom”.
I already felt foreign in another land, flying back to the Philippines wasn’t any better. Since my studies in Melbourne didn’t push through, I continued to travel in search of “home” during the course of multiple Philippine lockdowns. ECQ. GCQ. MECQ. I couldn’t keep track of what our government labeled its failed COVID responses. I was stuck in Manila during the height of Duterte’s terror law proclamation. The image of me once again being stranded in my own country seemed laughable at my expense but seeing people on the streets, abandoned and begging for support, was a horror I wasn’t prepared for. Having no idea where to place my rage, I joined rallies and volunteered for different grassroots movements.
Displacement, political unrest, climate and health anxiety, coupled with the numerous internal questions I couldn’t seem to find answers for, all boiled to the surface of my consciousness and I needed to decompress. In an impulsive attempt to start anew, I moved to Palawan. I had no plan. No expectations. I fully surrendered to the unknown that was waiting for me. I told myself that I would stay for a year to test the waters. Without even knowing a single soul there, I found community — an abundance of unconditional love and acceptance that I thought only existed in my imagination.
My stay there helped me see the cyclic patterns I engaged in. My kubo served as a healing space to understand and let go of ego. A spiritual practice anchored me earthside. My friends outside the island cautioned me in a panic, scared that they might “lose” me. But that was the goal. I was ready to shed all conditioned beliefs of myself. I worked in multiple kitchens and spent a year and a half experiencing life in curiosity. What role do I want to play in other people’s lives? Where does love exist in my body? How do the boundaries I uphold support my constant quest for liberation? Who am I outside the kitchen? Who am I when I’m alone? Who am I?
For the very first time, I felt safe to make mistakes. I belonged to my body. I began to trust myself. I ventured into the forest of my mind with inexplicable ease. I accepted parts of my shadow self that I wouldn’t allow myself to recognize before. I finally acknowledged that most of my emotional turmoil stemmed from holding on to a solid perception of myself. I used to think that being a complete person equated to fulfilling a steadfast performance of this persona. I now know that a true sense of Self comes from honing the skill of adaptability — embracing the reality of impermanence.
What doesn’t bend, is bound to break.
Unknown to me, I had finally found the home that I desperately yearned for. The decision to leave Palawan and the gentle life I built came from the assurance that it would still be there when I come back. I felt secure in rooting elsewhere knowing that the home that I created now lives inside me. I will continue to build it wherever I go.
A house is not a home.
Circling back to my problems with sleep, I’ve been prescribed medication to alleviate my symptoms. Insomnia has plagued me for as long as I can remember. When I was small, my parents would read The Princess and the Pea to me, insinuating that I was that girl. That I would complain no matter what. That I was ungrateful for a bed of my own and a roof over my head.
I cried in protest. I used to sleepwalk as a child, so I thought it was more fitting for me to be one of the 12 dancing princesses. Four walls and a roof do not make a home. I’m allowed to be thankful for a comfortable life while also acknowledging the fact that my childhood was robbed of tenderness and love. My childhood wounds will continue to hijack my current stability and joy so long as I let it.
This morning I woke up from the most restful sleep I’ve had in months. Too many things have gone wrong this year and I may not be where I want to be right now but I’m here. I’m aware. I’m able. I’m alive. I’m glad that you are too.
Self-discovery is an unending pursuit. I’ve met many versions of myself throughout the years that I wandered aimlessly, waiting for a grand eureka moment. The shift of awareness happened so subtly, almost unnoticeable.
Change is a funny thing, we never really know when the process of personal transformation begins. We often find ourselves caught in the middle and wonder how it will all work out in our favor. How reassuring to know that it always does. ✦
Postscript ~ to end on a lighter note, here are some snippets of things that have kept me sane these past months:
Wishing you a peaceful holiday season. Be with those who celebrate you.
Patricia ♡
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