The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller

I could not bring myself to sleep when the fireworks started. I peeked through the window and saw the Marbel midnight skies light up. I eventually got up, prayed with thanksgiving to God for adding another year, turned on the lamp, checked up on Nanay in the other room, and looked for Paul. Our family dog was hiding underneath the rattan chair, stressed out by the sounds of human celebration. 

All of the above is a preamble to what really kept me up: Andrew Miller's The Land in Winter. I picked it up at the Dubai airport for no special reason other than I felt like it. There's no rhyme or reason to my book choices, but the blurb at the back cover convinced me. The novel was going to be about a country doctor in winter time. At the book stall, at 2:30 am local time, I remember speaking to the lady in Tagalog without even asking if she was Filipino (she was). I looked for my credit card, hidden in the backpack, and she patiently waited, even as a queue of customers was forming behind me. "Happy New Year po," she said as I proceeded to the boarding gate. 

Andrew Miller is spectacular. There's so much interiority in the four major characters of the book. We read about two couples who live in the West Country on December 1962. They're neighbors. The first is Eric and Irene. Eric is the country doctor. Irene is the wife who leaves behind her city life to support her husband's career. The second couple is Bill and Rita. Bill is the Oxford-educated gentleman who pursues farming to escape his father's expectations; Rita is the wife whose past life contains many controversies. 

We soon learn that Irene and Rita are pregnant. A snow storm occurs, setting the tone and setting for the interrelated stories. 

The novel is brilliant. (Spoiler alert here) As the book is ending, Irene comes to a point of acceptance that her marriage isn't going to be perfect. 

It excited her, and she opened her eyes. The car, the moon, Eric's face (the face of an actor) were all changed. She looked at him, his concentration (there was ice out there), his frowning into the onrush of night. She might just sit there, do nothing, say nothing, but it no longer felt inevitable. Her anger, at that precise moment, was absent. The anger, the fear, the shame, the wound that had to be tended like a wayside shrine. And what had replaced them? Only this: the rattling of the little car, the whirr of the heater, the shards of light beyond the edges of the road. A sadness she could live with. Some new interest in herself. 

I'm starting 2026 on a high note, reading-wise. Finishing this book lends proof to my observation that buying books from airports is a good thing. 

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My Reading Year 2025

A participant in a literary forum once asked me about my reading habits. My actual response escapes me now. But if you had asked me that right at this very moment, I'd say: I don't have any, except that I carry a book with me anywhere. I read bits and pieces of a book, and many books all at once. There are moments when I read many chapters in one sitting, if the work is compelling and if I don't have a lot of work to do. Owning a Kindle helps a lot. Tote bags also leave enough room for a paperback, even a hardbound.

But I should keep track of my reading with more rigor and discipline. The timelines are not clear in my memory. You'll notice that some books reappear here, mainly because I'm not done with them yet. I'm writing specifically about the short story collections, which I do not read from cover to cover. Tita Mavis wrote:

Stories are not chapters of novels. They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else.

I also did a lot of rereading this year. I realize now that I profit greatly from reading a book over and over again. I find new meanings. The words and sentences don't change, but I do.  Overall,  2025 has been a good year for reading. What books surprised and delighted you?

Here are the books that have kept me company.

Honeybees and Distant Thunder by Riku Onda. Friendship and a piano competition! Bought this in the Instabul airport. 

 

A Carnival of Snackery by David Sedaris. David is funny. 

The Humans by Matt Haig. An alien and a dog!

Time is a Mother by Ocean Vuong. Ocean's poetry takes me to places. 

Voyager and Other Fictions by Jose Dalisay Jr. Great Filipino stories in English by a master storyteller.

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood. Made me want to escape my daily routines for a bit. Was surprised to hear about this book in the New York Times Book Review podcast, many weeks after I had finished reading it. Bought this in the Melbourne airport. I notice that I'm likely to finish a book if I buy them from the airport!

The Collected Stories of Gregorio C Brillantes. Each story is a masterpiece and brings home the reality of the beauty of life in the Philippines. 

The Journal by Henry David Thoreau. I read him when I'm out of ideas to write about. I also want to be with nature, in the outdoors. 

 

Trick Mirror by Jia Tolentino. Thoughtful essays, especially the first one: about internet and social media. 

Mga Bulawan Nga Bulak (Golden Showers) by John Iremil Teodoro. His poems are in Kinaray-a, translated to English. Kanami gid. Naghibi ako sang ginbasa ko. 

Nervous: Essays on Heritage and Healing by Jen Soriano. Masterful, playful writing about trauma and identity. 

Imagine a City: A Pilot's Journey Across the Urban World by Mark Vanhoenacker. Superb writing about cities. Made me book many flights to various places. Why hadn't I heard of him earlier? I picked this book in the discount bin at National Bookstore in Gensan. 

The Bloodied Nightgown and Other Essays by Joan Acocella. What a thinker! I especially love her essay on JRR Tolkien. 

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Extremely funny novel about academia, specially about a writer-professor who has not churned any new novel in years. He has other weird friends along the way. 

Winter Hours by Mary Oliver. I love Mary Oliver, and I love Prof. Majorie Evasco who gave this to me. 

The Uncollected Stories of Mavis Gallant. I don't read tita Mavis before I write. I get too intimidated and self-conscious just thinking of her surgically precise sentences.

Utopia Avenue by David Mitchell. Friends make songs and form a rock band. I cried at the end. I love David Mitchell. I endeavor to read everything he writes. I also enjoyed The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. 

Montreal Standard Time by Mavis Gallant. A collection of the stories the author wrote for a newspaper, until she decided to leave Canada and start a life writing fiction in Paris. 

 

Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. Must-read for all doctors, especially medical oncologists. 

Things Become Other Things by Craig Mod. I follow his blog (craigmod.com), and I'm a huge fan of his writing and photography. So much wisdom and compassion. I'm considering doing a solitary pilgrimage hike of sorts in Japan. 

Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis. I like a good science fiction work. 

Vintage Munro by Alice Munro. Her stories are richer than full length novels. 

Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer. Brilliant. 

Varieties of Exile by Mavis Gallant. I'm a fan, clearly.

A Wilderness Station by Alice Munro. I'm a fan, too, obviously.

Silence and Beauty by Makoto Fujimura. Christ's image being trampled, and what the means in Japanese society. His sentences, not just his art, are a gift to the world and to artists, in general. 

Vital Signs, edited by Ronnie Baticulon and Marjorie Evasco. What a celebration of short stories about healing by Filipino writers. 

The Books of Jacob by Olga Tocarczuk. A heavy lift for me, but otherwise enjoyable when read once chapter at a time, with a few days in between. 

The MacArthur Study Bible given by Kuya Vance and Ate Milaine. 

The Glory of Christ by John Owen. A feast for the soul as Owen reminds us of what it means to behold Christ's glory. 

First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan. He's a genius. 

What We Can Know by Ian McEwan. His novel about the future but otherwise feels very present. 

A Month of Sunday by John Updike. A Protestant minister takes a leave of absence because of sexual misconduct. You deplore the minister, but Updike's prose is a joy. 

The Longing for Home by Frederick Buechner. I learned about Buecher through Russel Moore's podcast. 

The Remarkable Ordinary by Frederick Buechner. I plan to read everything he's written. 

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin. A fantasy novel about the persecution of people who are able to do magic. 

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I echo the director Steven Soderbergh's testimony about Chimamanda's work:

But the bottom line is her understanding of just pure storytelling matched with a prose style that's just as aerodynamic as can be achieved. Like there's not a wasted syllable in any of these works. And there are sentences, there are single sentences that you go, well, you could write a whole book about that sentence.

It's just I was completely floored. And so burn through everything that I could get really quickly because it was like a drug, like it was just great storytelling.

Pachinko by Min Jin Lee. Powerful story about many generations of a Korean family. 

 

The Collaborators by Katrina Tuvera. From a previous blog post: 

I read Katrina Tuvera's 203-page novel, The Collaborators, simply one of the finest novels you'll lay your eyes on. It traces the intertwining lives of Carlos and Renata, their daughter Brynne, and Jacob, son of Carlos's friend. The story spans key points in Philippine history: from the Japanese occupation, Martial Law, to the end of the 20th century, with President Estrada's impeachment trial in the background. I ordered the novel, along with a few others, a month ago from the Ateneo Press website, without knowing much about her and her genius. Since I'd started reading it last night, I couldn't put it down.

 

 

I hope I didn't miss anything.

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Welcoming 2026

I'm celebrating the arrival of 2026 in the peaceful quiet space of Manong's bedroom—now my second bedroom and study—where I write this. The fireworks don't explode as loudly as they used to in my childhood, but our aspin Paul, whose ears are four times more sensitive than a human's, shivers in panic, hiding underneath my late father's rattan reclining chair, refusing to eat anything. 

The massive disinterest in fireworks is a good thing overall because that means more fingers will be spared from amputation. People resort to clanging their palanggana and timba, an inferior way of making sound, but much, much safer. My neighbors play OPMs for the entire street to hear. Minutes ago, I overheard, "Nandito ako, umiibig sa iyo ..." Not the best music for New Year's Eve, but if that song makes the listeners happy, I'm up for it either. 

My brothers Ralph and Sean joined me in a video call early this afternoon. We live in different timezones. Afternoons are the best time to call. Sean and wife Hannah had just returned from a tour of the Great Barrier Reef. Sean told me some scenes in the Pirates of the Caribbean were shot in the white beaches of that part of Australia. They boarded a small plane. Ten minutes into the descent, Hannah vomited due to biyahilo, a fact explained by the turbulence largely caused by the terrain on the ground. Soon Manong will join our newfound aunties and uncles—distant relatives from the Catedral side, but relatives nonetheless—for New Year's Eve. I left Manong behind in Sweden and told him, after two weeks of a relaxing but eventful trip around Europe, that I'd squeeze our mother for him. I'm back in Philippine shores, with its warmth, noise, and celebrations—things I intended to leave behind, if only for a few days. 

When I drove Auntie Nene Jasmin home to Banga (she was my mother's companion during the long break, while I was away), there was a fresh excitement all over town. I saw boys laughing and walking by the street, children running around.  Childhood should involve spontaneous games in the tangible outdoors, away from the smartphones that are the main reasons why many of their generation act like zombies. Cars lined the highway. The adults were buying round fruits—oranges, kiat-kiat, grapes—and fireworks.

A rainbow greeted me as I drove home: a steady reminder of the beauty of life and the possibilities of the year ahead. 

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It’s dark—and I like it

Manong and I wake up to the sound of silence. Nothing stirs outside; you wouldn’t realize this place is a city from our hotel window. At 7 am, the streets are dark and gloomy, with very few serious-looking people in thick down jackets and raincoats walking on the streets. The cars move silently and obediently, like the drivers were on a crucial driving test. The tires on the road give off a swooshing sound that stimulates hibernation in this winter climate: 1 degree Celsius, with light rain. 

The contrast startles me each time I’m in foreign land. I’m used to the sound of clanging pots, radio music from the eighties and nineties, and Brigada News FM about yet another road accident, punctuated by dogs barking and  aunties chatting outside as they sweep dried leaves off the street. 

In Lugano, in this southernmost canton of Switzerland, very close to the Italian border, the phrase, “in the dead of winter,” now takes on a deeper meaning. The place looks empty, sleepy, gloomy, drab even — but I like it. 

I wash my face and head to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, where we are two of the four people eating. 

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Firstborn

Biola University's Advent Calendar is a treasure chest of theology and art. My meditation this morning is on God as the Creator of all things, and Jesus as the Firstborn of all creation. The devotion is centered on three verses, particularly Paul's powerful words in the passage below:

Colossians 1:15–18 (NKJV)
He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him. And He is before all things, and in Him all things consist. And He is the head of the body, the church, who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in all things He may have the preeminence.

Kei Miller's poem, "The Book of Genesis," resonates with me on so many levels. I admire poets and their skill to piece together words and phrases to evoke meanings of various kinds. His poem reminds me of the powerful "Let there be..." of God in creation. God's power, creativity, and care in envisioning and crafting the world unleashed into the yet timeless void, for us to relish today. Interestingly the Jamaican poet's words also remind me of possibility and potential. The year 2025 is coming to a close; we will behold 2026 in a few days. What is God's Let for me next year?

Suppose there was a book full only of the word,
let – from whose clipped sound all things began: fir
and firmament, feather, the first whale — and suppose
we could scroll through its pages every day
to find and pronounce a Let meant only for us —
we would stumble through the streets with open books,
eyes crossed from too much reading; we would speak
in auto-rhyme, the world would echo itself — and still
we’d continue in rounds, saying let and let and let
until even silent dreams had been allowed.

 Octavio Javier Esqueda, who pieced together poetry, art, and music, wrote: 

Our God is more than the creator of everything that exists; our Lord always sustains the universe. God’s providence means that Christ preserves all things, and He is always in control of everything. When we proclaim that Jesus is Lord, we recognize that, regardless of our fears, concerns, and tribulations, we can trust in him. Every new day stands as a reminder that the sovereign God of the universe continues to show us his favor and grace. 

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David Whyte's The Opening of Eyes

My Advent meditation takes me to Jesus declaring himself as God in John 8:58. That God would choose to become man is astounding to me. Christmas reminds me of God's humility, first displayed in his earthly birth, followed by quiet childhood we know not much about, and ending with his love displayed on the cross -- an unmerited love towards us -- the greatest demonstration of love there is. 

In David Whyte's poem, the persona takes on a journey of discovery, or a rediscovery ("I knew then, as I had before..."), of the wonder of the great meaning of life. We toil and struggle on these earthly shores, but there comes a time when our pilgrimage comes to an end. I imagine the persona pausing in his journey and beholding, through careful contemplation, with his eyes opened, a vision of eternity -- or heaven, if you will. The vision overwhelms him: this is what he had been longing and searching for after "years of secret conversing / speaking out loud in the clear air."

The great meaning of life can be discovered through an encounter with God: Moses before the burning bush, and each one of us who have been called by God to his holy presence. We will land on a sure foundation, our dirty shoes left behind, because we are approaching holy ground. 

Nanay tells me she imagines heaven as a place where she will finally be embraced by the loving arms of Jesus: forgiven, accepted, loved. 

“The Opening of Eyes”
by David Whyte

That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.

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Christmas is upon us

Christmas is upon us. Beginning today and until the end of the Christmas season, I'm using the Biola University's Center for Christianity Culture and the Arts (CCCA) 2025 Advent Project. Each day I receive a devotional that  includes a verse to meditate on, a poem, a song/music, and a painting/mural/visual art form. Everything is tied up with a brief meditation.   

Most world religions acknowledge the historic Jesus as a great prophet/teacher. Yet, the trajectory of Scripture from beginning to end proclaims the deity of Jesus Christ, the Son of God and second person of the Trinity, who took on flesh to redeem the world from sin. The Nicene Creed, an early statement of faith recited by Christians for hundreds of years, articulates that Jesus is "the only-begotten Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father; through him all things were made. For us and for our salvation he came down from heaven, was incarnate from the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and was made man."

We understand Jesus to be the visible image of the invisible God. That Christ, the “Great I Am,” would leave the heavenly realm and humble Himself to walk among mere mortals is the awe-inspiring story of Christmas. The real significance of the Nativity is to be found in the incarnation of Christ. Our Advent meditation begins by pondering names that identify Christ as one with the Godhead. Each title has something particular to tell us about the Messiah in His relationship to God the Father. So come, let us worship and fall down before Christ Himself, our King and our God.

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