Chapter 34: Rooted Dreams

By the time May 2014 rolled in, the province had settled into its peak summer rhythm. The afternoons buzzed with cicadas, and the golden light painted everything in nostalgic hues. Our newly improved house, with its whitewashed walls, clean lines, and potted herbs perched neatly along the windowsills, now stood as a proud symbol of change. But even with the house renovated, I knew that the work of rebuilding our life—of setting new roots—was just beginning.

Being the youngest in the family, I'd always been seen as the one to be protected, the one to be guided. But now, with all the things I remembered from my past life—mistakes, missed chances, and hard-won wisdom—I had become something else: the quiet architect of our future.

I began to think more seriously about how we could use what we had. Papa still had his small patch of farmland on the edge of the barangay, mostly left idle in the past due to the rising cost of fertilizer and the lack of time. But in my old life, I had learned about sustainable agriculture. I remembered videos I watched in the past—some from TikTok, others from YouTube—that showed urban gardening, vermiculture, even basic aquaponics. At the time, I had only watched them to pass the time. Now, they were tools.

"Papa," I said one morning while he was feeding the chickens, "what if we tried planting again—organic this time? We can use compost and natural methods. No need to buy those expensive chemical fertilizers."

He looked at me with surprise, wiping his hands on a rag. "You know how to do that?"

"Sort of. I've been reading and watching tutorials. I can try making compost. I can help with the labor."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "If you really think it's worth a shot, let's do it."

We started small. I built a compost pit in the back using hollow blocks and old wooden planks. Every day, I added kitchen scraps, banana leaves, and garden trimmings, layering them the way I remembered from videos. I introduced the idea of planting companion crops—basil beside tomatoes, lemongrass near the kamote—to deter pests without chemicals. The soil was tired, but bit by bit, we coaxed it back to life.

Mama would peer at me from the kitchen window as I worked in the dirt, eyebrows raised. "You sure you're not training to be a farmer now, Carmela?"

"Maybe just a farmer with style," I replied, showing her a list I'd made for rotating our crops.

We planted string beans, eggplants, tomatoes, and cassava. Then we built a rainwater catchment system using old barrels, which we lined up neatly at the edge of the house. It wasn't fancy, but it worked. During late afternoon rains, water would flow from the gutters into the barrels, giving us a reserve for drier days.

The neighbors began to notice.

"Tingnan mo 'yan si Carmela, parang may sariling proyekto ng munisipyo, (Look at Carmela, it's like she has her own municipal project)" one of the old titas said, laughing as she passed by.

But then they started asking questions.

"How do you make the compost smell less?"

"Can I plant sitaw (string beans) in just a pot?"

It wasn't long before I started writing little guides in my notebook and offering tips to neighbors who wanted to start their own small plots.

Meanwhile, inside the house, I found other ways to improve our lives. I noticed our water usage was high, especially with laundry. So I suggested we install a basic greywater recycling system—one that reused rinse water for flushing or cleaning the yard. Papa and I rigged up the pipes using PVC and elbow joints I remembered from a home improvement video. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

"Where'd you learn all this, Carmela?" Papa asked one evening as we ate fresh pinakbet from our garden veggies.

I smiled. "Let's just say... from a lot of mistakes and late-night internet dives."

Jean and Jasmine came over one afternoon, their faces flushed from the heat. They brought halo-halo and sat with me under our mango tree.

"Your house looks amazing now," Jasmine said, tilting her head. "It's like those homestead but provincial."

"We should film it," Jean said. "Start your own channel—Carmela's Country Hacks."

I laughed. "Please no. I'm just trying to make life a little easier here."

Still, the idea planted a seed.

Why not share what I knew? I borrowed Jean's old phone, which had a decent camera, and with Coleen's help, we recorded short clips—me showing how to make compost tea, build vertical planters, or even just talking about family meal planning. We didn't post them online, but we played them at the barangay multipurpose hall during one of the weekend meetings. The response was overwhelming.

"This is what our kids should be learning," one parent said.

Soon, I was invited to speak at a youth program in the next barangay, teaching students how to set up backyard gardens. Me—a fourteen-year-old giving talks. It was surreal, but it felt right.

One day, while sorting tomatoes from our latest harvest, Mama sat beside me and asked quietly, "Did you always have this in you, anak?"

I paused. "Maybe I just needed a reason to bring it out."

She squeezed my hand. "You've changed our home. More than any paint or roof repair."

The truth was, I had changed because I had known what it was like to lose this. In my past life, I had watched this house decay, our dreams dry out like cracked earth. But now, every inch of improvement was a rebellion against that past. Every nail hammered, every seed planted, every system set up—it was me saying, "Not this time."

Evenings became sacred. We'd gather in the sala, windows open to the night breeze, the scent of basil and lemon grass wafting in. Mama would work on soap wrapping while Papa read old magazines, and I would write in my journals. I started journaling again, each entry a quiet vow to keep going.

In one, I wrote:

"They say you can't rewrite the past. But maybe, if you remember enough of it, you can reshape the present."

As May drew to a close and the first whispers of the rainy season rustled the banana trees, I felt it deep in my chest—this second life, this second chance—it wasn't about changing everything overnight. It was about showing up every day, with your hands in the soil and your heart in the work.

And with each day that passed, our once-weathered house grew into a home rooted not just in stone and cement, but in hope, effort, and love.

Because this time, I wasn't just dreaming of a better future.

I was building it.

One seed at a time.