Have you ever lived somewhere so remote, it feels like civilization is a distant hum on the horizon? A place where you wake up not to traffic or alarms, but to the sound of roosters crowing and the rustle of leaves in the morning breeze? A place where everything you eat is something you either planted, raised, or caught yourself?

That’s where I grew up- in the province, deep in the heart of the Philippines.

Mornings were magical. I would step outside, barefoot, and feel the cool kiss of dew on the grass- tiny jewels of mist tickling my feet. The air was crisp and clean, heavy with silence, save for the occasional chirp of birds greeting the dawn. As the sun slowly stretched its golden arms across the sky, the mist began to lift, unveiling the mountains in the distance- silent giants cloaked in a gentle fog, like a scene from a dream. That moment, when the world was still and waking all at once, made you feel like you were part of something sacred.

We lived off the land, not as a lifestyle trend, but because that was simply life. From a young age, my dad taught us how to till the soil, plant rice, and understand the rhythm of the seasons. You learn to watch the skies, feel the soil with your hands, and know when it’s time to plant or harvest. There was no rushing- just flow.

We had livestock for everything- chickens, ducks, pigs, and goats. Meat came from animals we raised ourselves, and every part was used with care and gratitude. We even had a fishpond right behind the house. If we wanted tilapia or catfish, we didn’t go to the market- we got it straight from the pond.

Outside the kitchen, we had a thriving garden. If we needed spices, we didn’t run to the store. We picked what we needed- chili, lemongrass, ginger, spring onions, calamansi, malunggay. Everything was within reach, fresh and alive.

And then there were the fruits. Oh, the abundance of fruits! In the backyard and around the farm, trees grew almost wild- cacao pods hanging low, ready to be cracked open for their bitter-sweet seeds. Rambutans, red and hairy, bursting with juicy flesh. Pomelos, as big as two hands, fragrant and refreshing. Guavas that you’d bite into with a crunch, skin and all. Star apples with their deep purple skin and soft, milky center that tasted like dessert from nature. We never bought fruit- we climbed trees for it.

But perhaps one of the most special things we grew was our own coffee. Yes, coffee. Right in our own farm. We picked the cherries by hand, dried them under the sun, peeled them one by one, roasted them over an open flame, and ground them manually. Brewing that first cup in the morning, knowing it came from beans you tended from tree to mug- it hits differently. It’s earthy, deep, and somehow tastes like home.

Occasionally, we’d go to town to buy things we couldn’t produce ourselves- sugar, salt, soap, oil. But everything else was right there, provided by the land, with hard work and patience.

Now that I live overseas in a place of convenience and speed, I often reflect on the richness of that simpler life. There’s something irreplaceable about living close to the land- knowing where everything comes from, feeling the seasons in your bones, and harvesting the fruits of your labor, quite literally. Life in the province wasn’t easy- but it was beautiful. Beautiful in its simplicity, in its quiet rhythms, in the way each day was shaped by nature, not by clocks or screens. It was a life full of hard work, yes- but also full of meaning, connection, and peace. And no matter where I go, that life stays rooted in me- like a tree that never forgets the soil it grew from. The land may be far now, but its lessons, its scent, its silence live on in me. That soil will always be home.