I’m not the one to tell you not to travel. And because she said, “We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls,” I’m guessing Anais Nin isn’t one to tell you either. But what if we can’t travel, for whatever reason. Or what if we can’t travel as far or as avidly as we’d like? British writer Ann Morgan presents the alternative: ‘bookpacking’.

There are some of you out there like me, for whom sleep is a complicated thing. There are two moments that are vital: late at night right before bed, and first thing in the morning when I awake. Night and day are defined by the peace of these moments. And there are a number of things that can disturb it—a looming deadline, an illness in the family, a massive case of self-doubt…or anything wrong in the world that I’ve come to worry about. Things, and the thoughts of things become intrusive, sometimes relentless in the worst of days. But I think I’ve found a hack for it.

Sorry this is a few days late, but we had a typhoon to contend with. I’ve been meaning to write about a recent, and very deliberate trip we took as a family. My uncle passed away a few weeks ago and we were all heartbroken, tired and searching for some kind of healing. We’re still all of that and will be for a long time.

We drove up to Baguio very early last weekend and I had been dreaming of this trip for weeks. I left my laptop and blackberry charger after half-heartedly charging my phone, hoping it would die midway and I could be truly off the grid.

I write mostly about happy things, but sometimes it gets tough as you probably know. One of the toughest things is when you lose somebody you love. My uncle, Tito Boy, passed away last week. And as hard as it is to write this, I can’t pretend that everything is alright. He’s the man in the middle in the photo above. My Mom and Dad and brother Roby, are on the left. Also in the photo is my beautiful late grandmother (we called her Mita), my cousin Lani, my Aunt Nona and my late godfather, Dexter.

Tito Boy was a fixture of my magical, small-town childhood. He loved me, my siblings and my cousins like he did his own kids, and was beloved by all of us in return. He was a sugar planter and a businessman, and was one of the gentlest, most patient people you could ever know. His favorite uniform consisted of faded jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap, that shaded his tanned and freckled skin. A giveaway of his love of a simple life near the sea that he loved so much.

Nearly four years ago, he was diagnosed with end-stage kidney disease. His health waned steadily. And although he had bravely survived Typhoon Haiyan, the storm took such a massive toll on his spirit and on his already fragile health. We kept hoping that he would somehow recover, but he never did.

It’s back-to-school week in our neck of the woods. Summer is officially history and we’re going full swing into another school year of homework, craft projects, birthday parties, meal planning and wardrobe arguments, mostly with my daughter, Caroline, who is fiercely opinionated about what she wears. For the record, she’s more immune than I am to those ubiquitous looms. When it comes to her red riding hood jacket however, there’s no fight. And she wears it most days as the start of school here always falls right at the beginning of rainy season.