#dinagatislands — Public Fediverse posts

A Walk Down Buray Avenue

September 12, 2021

It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.

The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.

I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.

Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.

I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.

These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.

But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.

I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.

These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.

My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.

And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.

It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.

And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.

A Walk Down Buray Avenue

September 12, 2021

It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.

The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.

I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.

Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.

I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.

These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.

But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.

I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.

These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.

My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.

And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.

It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.

And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.

A Walk Down Buray Avenue

September 12, 2021

It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.

The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.

I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.

Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.

I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.

These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.

But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.

I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.

These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.

My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.

And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.

It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.

And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.

A Walk Down Buray Avenue

September 12, 2021

It was just past midday on Sunday when I decided to walk home, the hesitant sun peeking through thick, dark clouds like Peter Pan playing hide and seek. As I passed by the White House, where the Divine Master once lived, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sadness. The place looked old and neglected, though here and there were traces of unfinished repairs, as if someone had tried to restore it but lost interest along the way. I wished they had preserved it properly, like Jose Rizal’s house in Calamba—somewhere people could visit, a place that carried echoes of his life. The walls, worn by time and weather, seemed to hold stories and secrets. If only they could speak. If only they could replay the voices and whispers of the past. What a gift it would be to listen through time.

The Divine Master… How could I not think of him with both sorrow and wonder? I never met him. By the time he passed, I was 12 years old, living far from here. But those who did—those who saw him, spoke with him, felt his presence—what a blessing that must have been. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been certain that the man they called the “mysterious superstar of the South” was no ordinary man.

I’ve read many books—on religion, philosophy, physics, even the so-called myths of Jesus. Scholars debate them endlessly. But in all my reading, I’ve never come across another man who could pass on his power of healing, his ability to perform miracles, to those who followed him. Pythagoras couldn’t. Moses and Elijah couldn’t. Apollonius of Tyana, the sainted Comte de St. Germain, even Cagliostro—none of them could do what he did. No one else could shift between ages, appearing as a child in the morning, a young man at noon, and an old man by dusk.

Many saints and sages throughout history have demonstrated bi-location, siddhic powers, and other supernatural feats. But only one, if he can even be called a man, could bring the dead back to life. Only one could summon a newborn from nowhere—a reincarnation materialized. If Jesus turned water into wine, Ruben Ecleo turned seawater into gasoline. He could calm storms with a word. He could stay underwater for hours.

I once heard a story about a little girl who was crying over a broken toy. Master Ruben smiled, approached her, and opened his hand—out of nowhere, a bird appeared. He handed it to the child, wiping away her tears with wonder. He made the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear again. With a mere pass of his hands over barren wombs, women conceived. He predicted lives, forewarned of events, and never—not once—was he wrong. He was an enigma, a mystery no scholar, no skeptic, no professional could unravel.

These thoughts drifted through my mind as I walked down Buray Avenue, lost in nostalgia. The afternoon was still and silent. I could see the road stretching all the way to the sea, empty, undisturbed. The houses stood quiet, their inhabitants either napping, watching TV, or hunched over their phones. It was a long history I was walking through, but my memories of it weren’t my own. They were secondhand—handed down through stories from those who had been there, those who had seen him with their own eyes. Their testimonies were like modern-day Canterbury Tales, fragments of something larger, something sacred.

But what makes it all the more incredible is that many of those witnesses are still alive. Some have passed on, but others remain. Years ago, I had the chance to speak with Tatay Cuper Edera, who had seen with his own eyes the three men from a yacht anchored at Cabilan Island. In ancient times, the disciples lamented the lack of books to record the deeds of the Galilean Master. Now, we have all the resources we could ever need—yet we lack the writer who can truly capture them.

I once had a dream of a book titled The Life and Times of the Divine Master. I don’t remember its contents. Maybe I read it in the dream, but upon waking, all I could recall was the title. Maybe it was an Akashic record, something only readable in the spirit world.

These thoughts weighed on me as I walked. A deep longing stirred in my heart—an ache for a past I never lived, for moments I never witnessed. I never saw the Divine Master. I never heard his voice, never observed the way he moved, the way he carried himself. And yet, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel the loss of him.

My knees ached as I walked further down Buray Avenue, a lingering pain from last year. To my right, a large black boulder sat like a relic of the past, nestled among houses both new and crumbling. Concrete homes, carefully tended, stood in contrast to older, worn-down dwellings. A shirtless man sat on a bench beneath a tree, soaking in the breeze. A ladder leaned against a street post, abandoned, perhaps, for a lineman’s lunch break. Stores lined the street, bustling in their quiet way.

And this—this was the same street the Divine Master once walked.

It’s easy to keep walking downhill, toward the sea. But doing so means turning your back on the shrine.

And then, as I passed the Admin Building, a sudden, quiet ache filled me. I missed the Grand Master. I missed everything. And that was all there was to it.

40

Share ko lang. It was 2005 when my missioner, Brod Ed — or as I often call him, Sir Ed, because he was a professor at a state university in our place — and I went to Dinagat for the second time to attend the PBMA Conference. But that year was special. It was the 40th Conference and the 40th anniversary.

Most of the time, during the long hours of our voyage, we would talk about Kabbalah and spirituality, especially the meaning of the number 40. We found out that 40 symbolizes transition, purification, testing, preparation, transformation, and awakening. It often marks a period where a person leaves one state of being and emerges changed.

Moses spent 40 days on Mount Sinai before receiving the Law.
The flood in the story of Noah lasted 40 days and 40 nights.
The Israelites wandered for 40 years in the wilderness before entering the Promised Land.
Jesus Christ fasted for 40 days in the wilderness before beginning His ministry.
After the Resurrection, Jesus remained with His disciples for 40 days before the Ascension.

In these stories, 40 is never just a measure of time. It marks a process where identity is stripped down and re-formed. As we often say, life begins at 40.

Those were happy days despite the struggles of the voyage and journey. Palawan is on the side of the map running across the edge of the Philippines in the West opposite to an inclination down below Dinagat. Spiritually, one may call it a pilgrimage. Why? Because you travel to the Holy Land. You meet many brothers and sisters from different places. You are united in one purpose, though when you actually talk to them, you discover that each person carries different intentions and personal reasons.

But for me and Sir Ed, all we wanted was to see and meet the Master whom we call now GrandMaster.

I was not privileged to meet the Master personally the first time we went there around 2002. And neither during the second visit. But I saw Sir Bengie when he came out calling for “Bernie!” He was looking for Bernie. I do not remember if Sir Bengie saw me or us, but I saw him then in his younger and leaner years.

During the 40th PBMA anniversary, also called the Ruby Anniversary, I had very little knowledge of the Visayan tongue. I kept struggling and sweating just to understand the dialect, and thanks to Sir Ed, who would often interpret the words for me while we listened to the messages of different personalities on stage.

One of those almost sleepless nights became unforgettable. When the Grand Master went on stage to deliver his message, the checkered long sleeves he wore were the exact same clothes he had worn in my dream after I was screened and became a member.

At that time, I was working in a dive shop and was one of the crewmen with an Advanced Open Water Dive training. Bulagis din buhok ko! Often sun dried and salty daily. (How I wish for those times now.) I was also guarding the boat that night when I first dreamed of the Grand Master, afloat and alone on that placid moonless night.

One of the nights during the PBMA 40th Anniversay, became deeply memorable for me and Sir Ed because we spent hours discussing, contemplating, and spiritually conversing — trying to see “through a glass darkly” and fathom what the Grand Master meant when he said:

“𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒.”

I still remember Sir Ed quickly scrawling those words in his pocket notebook lest we forget the exact phrase. Until now, we never fail to revisit and discuss it, as though we were two rabbis at midnight with empty cups of coffee, endlessly conversing about what the Grand Master might possibly have meant.

And I tell you, there are still more things that Sir Ed and I could share — and to paraphrase William Shakespeare through Horatio:

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘙𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘯 𝘌𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺.”

LIST: November 2025 special non-working days in PH provinces, cities, towns

https://fed.brid.gy/r/https://www.rappler.com/philippines/special-non-working-days-proclamations-provinces-cities-municipalities-november-2025/