Less truly is more

Following the kind responses to my previous piece, Grounded in My Promdi Roots, especially from fellow Marinduqueños, I felt compelled to continue the thread of nostalgia. There is something grounding in revisiting the places that shaped us. And for those unfamiliar with where I come from, somewhere between the familiar and the forgotten lies Marinduque, a heart-shaped island nestled at the very center of the Philippine archipelago. Bordered by Tayabas Bay to the north and the Sibuyan Sea to the south, it is a place that seems to resist time itself, moving to a peaceful rhythm that’s becoming rare in a world constantly in fast-forward mode and obsessed with hustle.

Life there was quiet and undistracted. Mornings began not with car horns and rush hour traffic, but with the crowing of roosters, the gentle rustle of coconut palms, and the scent of fresh pan de sal wafting from the neighborhood bakery. Coffee in our home was also something else entirely. Brewed from toasted rice, it carried a smoky, nutty flavor and a scent that wrapped around the kitchen like a warm hug. It was an old family tradition, born of thrift and sustained by love. People rose with the sun, tended backyard gardens, cast nets by the shore, swept their yards in the age-old Filipino tradition of pagwawalis, or simply sat on the front steps and watched the world stretch into another day. There was no rush, only the acceptance of the day as it unfolded.

Kids played on the streets without gadgets, without even shoes sometimes. We had tumbang preso, sipa, pick-up basketball games with makeshift hoops and river swims that lasted all afternoon. The elders gathered under trees to exchange stories, play mahjong, or simply watch life go by. Everyone knew each other, and a genuine sense of pakikipagkapwa bound the community together. People weren’t measured by what they had, but by how kindly they treated others.

We enjoyed the simple pleasures of life, a meal of fresh fish and kamote, a bike ride along a coastal road, and an evening spent under a sky full of stars. My brother and I enjoyed our regular treks to the mountains, enjoyed ginataang native manok for lunch and rode the karomata, a cart pulled by a carabao, coming back to town. Slipping on the ground was a normal occurrence when it rained. And when we did, we laughed, because we knew how to get back up, even with dirt on our backs.

Back then, there was no WiFi or shopping malls, and yet everything essential — peace, presence, connection — was within reach.

Of course, like any province, Marinduque has its share of challenges. Opportunities are limited. Infrastructure remains a challenge. Power outages still darken homes far too often even to this day. But the people have long learned to live with these constraints with grace, grit and humor. They find joy not in what’s missing, but in what remains: community, warmth and the enduring ability to make something out of little.

Once in a while, it is good to be reminded of what really matters. As we age, we feel the urge to rediscover the beauty of slow living, the value of relationships and the richness of a life uncluttered by excess. In a world that constantly demands more, Marinduque taught me that sometimes, less truly is more.