A Childhood in Nature

Childhood here was a feast for the senses: the gritty soil in our palms, the sweetness of fruit on our tongues, the cool splash of river water, the fragrance of wild plants, the chorus of birds, and the whisper of leaves in the wind. Each day was a story, a connection to the world around me, a life untouched by the rush and smoke of modernity. (Photo: Malagonlong Bridge by Habilinfarms.com)

By Luisito Queano

I grew up in Ibabang Bukal, a quiet barrio in Tayabas, Quezon, where the world felt vast, alive, and full of wonder. Our farm was my sanctuary. My Tatay would take us to the backyard, and together we dug into the soft, dark soil. My brother and I would unearth tiny white and brown worms, slippery in our hands. “Healthy soil,” Tatay would say, smiling. And indeed, the earth seemed to hum with life beneath our fingers.

 Everywhere I looked, nature thrived. Dahong makahiya curled shyly underfoot, calachuchi scented the air, and lanzones trees stretched tall against the sky. We would snack on pongapong fruits, sweet and slightly tangy, while climbing the rough bark of buli and katmon trees. Along the riverbank, water tickled our ankles as we scooped apta, tiny shrimps, into our strainer, their bodies glinting like tiny jewels in the sunlight. The breeze carried the scent of fresh sahing and damp earth, and the songs of martines birds filled the air with melody while watching tikling flitting over the rice paddies. Even the scuttling bayawak added a playful rhythm to our afternoons.

At night, magic seemed to descend upon the farm. My younger brother Ricky and I would watch from our window as clusters of alitaptap (butterflies) gathered at the foot of banana trees, their wings fluttering like tiny lanterns. Our parents would whisper that diwatas and fairies lived there, hidden among the leaves. Soon after, we would drift to sleep, and it felt as if we truly lived in a magical world, where the ordinary and the extraordinary blended seamlessly in the quiet darkness.

Childhood here was a feast for the senses: the gritty soil in our palms, the sweetness of fruit on our tongues, the cool splash of river water, the fragrance of wild plants, the chorus of birds, and the whisper of leaves in the wind. Each day was a story, a connection to the world around me, a life untouched by the rush and smoke of modernity.

Now, the world has changed. Highways and subdivisions have replaced the fields. Rivers run dry. The air smells heavy with smoke, and the symphony of nature has grown silent.

 Yet, the small farm my Tatay left remains—a living memory of a world I once knew. I have promised myself to nurture it, to plant native fruit trees, and to let it grow into a place where the earth is alive again, where a child might once more feel the magic of soil, sun, and river beneath their feet.###