The Girl and the Shawl
74th Birthday Celebration at The Tapenade, Discovery Primea
There must be a reason I was born below the equator. In the infinite wisdom of my Creator, He must have known I would thrive in a natural habitat of warm temperatures. Which makes me wonder now what I am doing living permanently in the U.S.—though I console myself with the thought that I am on the West Coast, where snow is more rumor than reality unless you go looking for it in higher elevations.
Still, my body is in constant protest. It insists on being warmed all the time. At home in the San Francisco Bay Area, I am perpetually bundled—cashmere and cardigans, parkas and hooded puffers, quilted jackets, thermal loungewear. Socks, boots, gloves lined with merino wool. Long coats. Even my lounging dresses are made of sherpa fleece, faux fur, wool, anything that traps heat and keeps the chill at bay. Portable heaters stand guard in the corners of the rooms I frequent. I move from one warm pocket to another and rarely venture outdoors.
It is not a fun way to live—cocooned in layers upon layers of clothing. I imagine instead a life in sheer, light fabrics, in sandals, unencumbered and free. Thankfully, I managed to worm my way back to the Philippines by establishing a business there, one that required me to travel often. I thought I had found my escape.
But to my dismay, air conditioning is everywhere. Malls blast it, restaurants revel in it, cars hum with it. And so, there I was again, wrapped in shawls and ponchos wherever I went. It felt almost comical—being photographed constantly swaddled in fabric while everyone else basked in haltered, light, and airy clothes. Finally, I sought help from a doctor. He told me I was low in red blood cells, which explained why I felt cold even in tropical heat. He prescribed a daily dose of iron.
At a business meeting, Coffee Beans, The Ayala Malls
Still, the shawl has become part of my ensemble. Not by choice, but by quiet surrender. Though I am not a fan, I own thirty-six shawls at last count—most of them gifts from well-meaning friends. When pashminas were all the rage, I never missed receiving one or two during Christmas or on my birthday. Each one, I suppose, a gesture of care, a soft acknowledgment of my peculiar chill.
And so I live this in-between life—born of the tropics, residing in the temperate, always negotiating with the air around me. The shawl, draped over my shoulders, has become more than just a shield against the cold. It is my compromise, my quiet companion, my badge of adaptation. It tells the story of a body that remembers where it came from, even when life has taken it elsewhere.
But if there is a moral to this story, it is this: there is a deep, almost cellular longing to be where one belongs, where the air does not need to be negotiated, where comfort is not something you have to assemble piece by piece.
Ibalik n’yo 'ko sa Pilipinas!
Eating halo-halo with frineds at Milky Way, Makati
Not just for the warmth—but for the ease of being, the shedding of layers both literal and otherwise, the freedom to exist as I was first intended: light, unencumbered, and at home.
