My Beloved Family: The Seasons of Love

A graduation, a baptism, a poem—and the moment our family became a field.

Jun 25, 2025

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On the Video: This video captures a beautiful moment of celebration—
our family honoring my beloved cousin Phoebe, born and raised in New York City.

On Friday, May 23rd, we gathered at Giando on the Water to celebrate her graduation with her undergraduate degree—
and the next chapter she’s stepping into this Fall: medical school, right here at home in NYC.

→ A night of love, pride, and pure family resonance.
Remember: This is ‘Proof’ that you already live in the future people are still praying for.
You didn’t time-travel—you just never forgot what you came here to build.
And now the world is catching up to the frequency you always carried.

Phoebe graduated last month—but today, it hit me.

I added Seasons of Love to the video, and suddenly I couldn’t stop crying.

Because it’s not just a graduation.

It’s a passage.

A closing of one era and the quiet, brave opening of another.

Phoebe, you carry something ancient and soft in you.
A knowing. A kindness. A depth this world needs more of.
Watching you walk across that stage felt like watching time fold in on itself.
Like love had decided to walk in human form, just for a moment, so we wouldn’t forget.

This one’s for the cousins.

The ones growing up right in front of us.
The ones reminding us to feel, even when it hurts.
The ones who make us proud to be alive.

525,600 minutes.

How do you measure a life?

Maybe like this.

Congratulations to my dear, beloved cousin Phoebe.
You will be one of the most loving, caring, realest, most authentic medical doctors this world will ever know.

This weekend was sacred.

Not just special. Not just sweet.
Sacred.

My nephew Evan turned one.
He was baptized on Saturday.
We celebrated his first birthday on Sunday.

And for the first time in a long time,
our whole family came together—physically, emotionally, soulfully.

I had been quietly waiting for this.
Not just the event itself—but the convergence.

The right moment.
The right vibration.
The right version of us.

On the Video: This video captures my family celebrating Evan's first birthday

While Evan was born June 4

We celebrated Evan’s birthday last Sunday on June 22, 2025.
And the world quietly changed.

We gathered under the sun—Filipino family, food, laughter, and the frequency that only comes when a community remembers how to feel.
It wasn’t just a party.
It wasn’t just a baptism.
It was a field convergence disguised as a celebration.
And Evan—this one-year-old Gemini Dragon (like me), born of our line—stood at the center of it all like a smiling anchor of light.

This is not an exaggeration.
Evan’s birth is a generation seal.
He arrived right on the hinge point—the threshold where Generation Alpha ends, and Generation Beta begins.
And as I watched him—tiny, laughing, held—I knew:

This child didn’t just come into the world.
He entered as a convergence point for what the world is becoming.

There is a kind of Filipino love that transcends description.

It’s in the way we move through a party.
It’s in the way the elders prepare food before the guests arrive.
It’s in the way the cousins sit a little too close on the couch.
It’s in the line dancing, the laughter, the random karaoke mic that gets passed around like a blessing.

And it’s in the way we show up for each other—even in the middle of chaotic schedules, different cities, different lives.

We showed up.

We dressed Evan in the most radiant white outfit for his baptism—soft, pure, and full of light.
We held the space with both reverence and ease—fully present, fully ourselves.
And the next day, we celebrated for real—with joy, music, and laughter—
at a venue so perfectly named: The Chandelier.

Because of course, it had to shine.

We danced. We played. We hugged.
And I—well, I wrote a poem for Evan.
And I read it aloud.

Not performed.
Not recited.
Devoted.

I Read a Poem. The Field Opened. My Family Felt My Arrival.

There came a moment where I stood up and offered a poem.
Not a “reading.”
Not a “recitation.”
I offered a live field devotion—to Evan, to his parents (my dear cousin Candice and her husband, Ken), to our family, to the soul of this generation.
I didn’t speak as performance.
I spoke as blessing.
The air shifted.
Time paused.

I turned to my cousin and asked, softly but publicly, “How long did it take?”
She answered: Five.
Five tries—including IVF, heartbreak, hope, and trying again.

Then I turned to Ken. I said nothing at first. Just looked at him.
Because I already knew.
Candice and Ken grew up together on the same block—Fulton Avenue in Jersey City.
As kids, they played just doors apart. And even then, something in me knew: They were soulmates.

Ken started laughing. “I stalked her,” he said. “Later in life.”
He gave me this intense stare like a horror movie villain—but in the best way.
I laughed and said back, “That’s why. I see it in your eyes right now.”

Everyone burst out laughing. Because it was true.
Love like that doesn’t hide. It pulses.

This is what I mean when I say I offered a blessing.
It wasn’t a speech. It wasn’t a show.
It was a moment that let truth be.
And the field held us all.
Not a “reading.”
Not a “recitation.”
I offered a live field devotion—to Evan, to his parents, to our family, to the soul of this generation.
I didn’t speak as performance.
I spoke as blessing.
The air shifted.
Time paused.

And as I spoke, I noticed some people were stirred. Others… quietly walked away.
And it’s okay.
Because love at full frequency can be hard to hold.
Even my sister, who is one of the most powerful women I know—a true force of nature—had to step away mid-poem.
I don’t blame her.
She’s on her journey too.
But one day soon, she’ll remember her own divinity, her own role in this bigger timeline.
And when she does, she won’t ask anyone for permission—not even her husband.
Because she’ll know: She was never meant to be secondary. She was built to lead, too.

“For Evan, On the Day of Your Light”
—Your loving uncle, Lorenzo Ω.
You arrived not just as a child—
but as a comet remembering its path.
Born from love, through lineage,
your name already echoes in the stars
like a gentle drumbeat in heaven’s chest.
You are Evan.
You are Gemini.
You are Dragon.
You are the bloom of breath made visible—
a flicker of the infinite wrapped in skin,
grinning through the veil.
Today, the waters rise to greet you.
Today, you are not just held,
but anointed.
This is your baptism,
but the truth is—
you were always sacred.
Let no one ever tell you
you must earn your place here.
Let no system, no voice, no world
dull the shine that you carry.
Because you don’t shine like the sun—
you are the sun.
And we are merely blessed to feel your warmth.
You come from a lineage of tenderness,
a people who survived, sang, and dreamed
even when the world tried to hush them.
So we gather now, not just to celebrate your year,
but to bless the era you’ve already begun.
Evan, you are not the future.
You are the field shift.
The signal. The smile. The sound of joy breaking through.
And I—your tito,
your fellow Gemini Dragon—
I promise to hold the light with you,
to walk beside you when the road bends,
to remind you, always,
you are already everything you seek.
Welcome to this world, again.
Happy birthday, little one.
Happy baptism, beloved.
You are the joy we never knew we needed
until you arrived, laughing like the dawn.

Filipino Joy Is Not Ordinary Joy... it is Sacred Emotional Intelligence-in-motion

If you’ve never been to a Filipino party, let me say this:

→ You’re missing out on one of the most emotionally intelligent, heart-centered, joy-charged cultural frequencies on Earth.

We don’t just host events.
We create resonance containers.

There is music.
There is food.
There is laughter.
And there is always dancing—especially line dancing.

Filipino line dancing is not just movement.
It is field memory.
It’s the body saying: I belong here. I follow. I lead. I laugh. I live.

We don’t watch from the sidelines.
We move together.
We find rhythm, joy, and freedom as one.

No one teaches us this—it’s in our bones.
This is how we’ve survived, and how we’ll keep rising.
This is not performance.

This is cultural EQ.

→ → → But wait!—let me tell you about Todo Todo.

Because if you know, you know.

Todo Todo is not just a dance—it’s the Filipino rite of passage.
It’s one of the most intricate, soul-fueled line dances in our entire repertoire. And I’m 37, okay? I’ve been dancing a long time. But Todo Todo still humbles me.

It requires precision. Rhythm. Trust in your body. And full embodiment. You can't half-step through it. Your whole being has to listen to the beat. To the pattern. To the pulse.

If you can do the Todo Todo, you are in touch with your soul. Period.

So here’s to the titas still mastering it in heels.
Here’s to the kids learning it at family parties between bites of barbecue.
Here’s to the souls in the Philippines right now—yes, you—practicing that footwork, getting it wrong, getting it right, laughing through the rhythm.

You are participating in cultural magic. And I see you.

Todo Todo is hard.
And that’s why it’s sacred.

Now back to your regularly scheduled reverence—
Let me say this clearly:

If you’ve never been to a Filipino party, you’re missing out on one of the purest emotional frequencies on Earth.

We don’t gather to impress.
We gather to radiate.
To eat, laugh, dance, and most importantly—remember joy.
We don’t sit still at our parties.
We move.

Line dancing isn’t a gimmick—it’s a sacred art.
It’s the collective body remembering its rhythm.
No one’s left behind. Everyone follows, then leads, then laughs together when the beat flips and we try to keep up.
There is no shame in Filipino movement.
There is only resonance.

This is emotional intelligence.
This is cultural genius.
This is why, despite centuries of outside influence, we still know how to sing.
We still know how to show up.
We still know how to bless our children, feed our guests, and dance like every step means something.

This Post Is Not a Poem.
This post is a timestamp.
A record of what happened when one family celebrated one child—
and the universe rearranged itself to bless an entire generation.

Behind every joyful child is a generation who survived for them to be free.
Our elders made this moment possible, even if they sat quietly in the back, watching with full hearts.

Evan Is Not Just the Future. He Is the Signal.

Evan is not just a child.
He is the marker.
The field node.
The joyful spark that tells us we are entering a new rhythm—
one where love, play, family, and cultural intelligence are the foundation for everything to come.

And to bless him today, with my voice, my poem, my whole heart—
was to bless an entire generation.

To every parent raising a child right now:

You are not just parenting.
You are anchoring the field.
And we feel you.

To Evan, I say again:

“You are not the future.
You are the field shift.
The smiling sound of joy breaking through.
We are so lucky you arrived.”

The Soundtrack We Lost—and the Family That Found It
Sometimes I think about how much soul the music had in the '90s. Even the 2000s. Even parts of the 2010s, there was still something there.

Real voices. Real pain. Real joy. Real melody.
Lauryn. Brandy. Alicia. Maxwell. Jagged Edge. Mariah. The whole era carried depth.

And after the pandemic, I really thought we were going to return to that.
To the feeling. To the truth. To voices that make your whole chest ache and smile at the same time.

But it’s five years later—and it’s the complete opposite.

The industry doubled down.
Autotune over emotion. Hype over heart.
The music doesn’t hold us—it distracts us.

And maybe that’s why I cry when I hear Seasons of Love or old R&B.
Because it reminds me of a time when music helped us remember who we were.

Now? We remember through each other.
Through our families. Through real resonance. Through what can’t be streamed or sold.

That’s why I’m writing all this.
To timestamp the real.
To say: soul isn’t dead. It just moved.

And this past month, I found it again—in my family.

What I love most about my family is that our love is not performative.
It’s not loud for the sake of being seen.

It just is.
Present. Grounded. Familiar. Eternal.

We’re a family of resonance.
Of signal.
Of truth that doesn’t need a microphone to be heard.

Even when words aren’t spoken, the feeling is there.
Even when someone is quiet, the bond is loud.

I realized this weekend that what I feel for my family—
this tender, timeless love—
is the same love I’m bringing to the world through everything I build.

Every blueprint. Every post. Every vision I carry into the future.
It’s not built from theory.
It’s built from this.

From the unspoken ways we care for each other.
From the small gestures that say I see you.
From the collective knowing that we are safe in each other’s presence.

→ This post is not to impress you. ←

It’s to invite you.

To remember your own family.
To hold your people closer.
To show up next time without the excuses.
To write your own poem—even if you never read it aloud.

Because family—chosen or blood—is the first resonance.
It’s the original signal.
And when we honor it, we heal the world.

To Evan: You are joy in its purest form.
To my sister and brother-in-law: You are grace in action.
To my mom: You are the reason I know how to love.
To the whole clan: Thank you for reminding me what it means to be real.

And to the ‘strangers’ who shared the space with us—yes, even the staff, the servers, the helpers—
I saw your smiles. I felt your presence.
You were part of it too.

(And trust—at future gatherings held by The Omega Origin, there will be no separation. The servers, the vendors, the helpers—everyone participates. Because that’s what true resonance creates. That’s how Nova Gaia feels: no one left outside the joy they helped make possible.)

Because real love doesn’t exclude.
It reverberates.

And this weekend?
It echoed across timelines.

Phoebe, you are the healing. Evan, you are the signal. And together, you remind me why we’re still here—building, remembering, and loving like it’s all that matters.

To Evan:
You are not the future.
You are the field shift.
The smiling sound of joy breaking through.

And to every Filipino, every tender soul, every mother, every sibling, every joyful body that danced today:

You are the love we forgot we were allowed to live.
You are the proof that fun is sacred.
And you are already free.

And then—because this is me—I pivoted after the party…

After the last photo was taken, after the final plate was cleared, after the goodbyes and car seat buckle clicks—my body did what it always does when the frequency shifts:

It needed movement. It needed solitude. It needed a strange, sacred, nonlinear reset.

So I got in the car and drove.

Where? Bayonne Park.

Yes, Bayonne Park. Don’t ask me why. That’s just where the field led me.
The sun was beginning to soften. The wind carried that post-celebration hush—the kind of stillness that follows a beautiful noise.

And I walked.

Alone.

Past the baseball diamonds. Past the benches. Down to the edge of the water.

That’s where I stood. Hoodie on. Heart still beating in the rhythm of line dancing, of poetry, of Evan’s little laugh. But the silence was different now. It was internal.

No music. No chatter. Just the sound of the tide.

Because this is how my neurodivergent brain works:

I don’t process joy the way others do. I have to walk it out. I have to exhale it in private.

I pour everything into the moment—every drop of presence—and then I recalibrate in solitude, not to escape, but to seal it. To honor it. To file it into memory.

Bayonne Park became my quiet backup drive.

No party photos there. No relatives. No cake. Just me, the sky, and the knowing that something sacred had just happened.

And that’s when I found it.

The Compass Rose & The Omega Ring

At the edge of a hidden path, I stumbled on a giant compass rose painted into the earth—its four cardinal points etched beneath my feet, and around it?

A massive red circle. Omega.

Weathered. Worn. Nearly hidden.

But not to me.

To me, it was a message.
It was a lock.
And I stood at its center.

I didn’t need direction.
I was the direction.
I wasn’t lost.
I was being witnessed.

The Elder in the Tree

Then—off to the side, tucked behind tall grasses and wildflowers—I found him.

A wooden figure carved into a tree trunk.
Bearded. Still. Surrounded by offerings.
Ropes of beads hung around his neck. Tiny animals rested at his base.
The statue didn’t announce itself.
It waited.
For someone who could see.

And I saw him.
And I bowed.

This was no accident.
This wasn’t just some forgotten park carving.

This was the Elder Gatekeeper.
The Watcher of the Threshold.
The one who signs off a ritual once it’s complete.

And I understood:

This wasn’t just a walk.

It was a seal.

East–West Planetary Ritual Convergence

While I stood in New Jersey—on the East Coast, placing my footsteps into the Omega ring—

Dr Meghan Roekle

and

Gifts from Goddess

stood in her own sacred ground on the West Coast,
activating the field with the same reverence.

We didn’t plan it.
We didn’t text.

But the Earth knew.
The Grid knew.
The Elders knew.

And so on that day—two sacred points on the planetary field aligned.
Not virtually. Not performatively.
But ritually.

Two signals.
Two beings.
Two sides of the same world.
Sealed the planet.

And now? The axis is set.

🜁🜃🜂🜄🜔

To My Alpha-to-My-Omega Soulmatch

You’re reading this right now because you feel it.
You didn’t click this post—
It opened you.

Your stomach tightened. Your breath changed.
Your pulse quickened. Your chest whispered: “Pay attention.”

That’s how you know it’s yours.

This is for you.

I’ve been anchoring the field for months—holding the frequency until you remembered how to walk through it.
You didn’t miss your chance.
You’re right on time.

The compass rose wasn’t for direction.
It was to remind you: the axis is alive.
Your place is known. Your arrival is seen.

That wooden elder?
He signed off your entry.
He saw you. From across timelines.

So if your body is feeling heat right now,
or your eyes sting and you don’t know why—
don’t doubt it.
It’s real.

This is the part where the veil drops.

This is where you stop pretending you didn’t know me.

Welcome back.

Let’s rise.
—Lorenzo Ω.

Excerpt from the Omega Event Manifesto: Joy Is for Everyone Who Helped Build It

→ Future gatherings in Nova Gaia do more than celebrate—they redesign the very architecture of joy.

There will be no upstairs and downstairs.
No "staff in the back" while others feast in the front.
No divide between those who serve and those who celebrate.

Because in the Omega Field—everyone who helps build the joy, gets to experience the joy.

Servers. Vendors. Coordinators. Drivers. Cleaners.
You are not accessories to the event.
You are participants in the resonance.

At Omega events, the moment the work is done—you dance too.
You eat. You laugh. You’re invited into the sacred pulse you helped sustain.

Because that is the kind of world we are already creating.

Because Nova Gaia isn’t a utopia in the sky.
It is a frequency we live now.
It is built moment by moment, through dignity, reciprocity, and joy that leaves no one behind.

The age of extractive celebration is over.
The age of inclusive exaltation has begun.

Call to Action:

If this stirred something in you—if you felt the pulse, the remembering, the resonance—

Keep rising.
Keep building.
Keep becoming.
Keep remembering.

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