Sleep experts say don’t take naps past 4 p.m. because it will disrupt your sleep cycle. Well, I just woke up from a 4 p.m. nap and I don’t care one bit. I’m going to sleep whenever I want because it’s Sunday, and we got home after hopping from one supermarket to another, trying to find mom’s preferred butter. We found a lot in the last of the three, where we lingered long after the cashier managed to convince my mother to buy a membership card, with the lure of some “freebies,” and by it she meant a notebook and two strips of sachet products, and I was already writhing with dysmenhorrea that the only thing I wanted was to get to my bed and take my Zzzs.

But, before that, early this morning, when the air was so crisp and cold that you’d want to stay in bed for long, our phone rang. 5:20 a.m. and I answered to my dad, who asked us if he’d come and get us, or not, which he’d rather, and we said no, because Mang Charlie will come and fetch us. Mang Charlie did, faithfully, five minutes before seven, just before my mom and brother even finished their breakfast, that we scampered out of the gate and the flood-driveled street. He asked us if we had an umbrella; rain was brewing, but it didn’t fall. So all the while, when he drove us from Malolos to Hagonoy, it was a pleasant ride, other than a few splashes of water on my jeans.

Luckily, I wore my $5 rubber sandals. It’s teal.

Everything is back to normal. Our internet is back up, I’ve got resources saved for my 3000-word piece, and there’s no classes tomorrow, which means one thing: the whole family would be at home to enjoy the day with a nice stock of food. Oh. Last night, I dreamt of food. Lots of them, in boxes, most, our favorites. In the same dream, I ate a sandwich filled with gummy bears and fruit tapes and gummy orange rinds. It was not good, but I had to show the shop owner it was, just because, well, I was in their shop.

Weird, right? I mean, who put gummies in sandwiches? I’m trying not to eat sandwiches.

It’s my 67th weird dream I tweeted.

This week, I’ve said the things I wanted to say, asked the things I wanted to ask, lightened my tight grip on a dream I knew would come true, and did the common in the most uncommon way. I discovered what’s possible in the middle of the terrible.

It was, I should note, not as terrible as others have experienced. Still, a dilemma nonetheless. I thank God for stretching me in a non-hazardous way, where I learned to sail my boat minus the threats of missing a due, or the stress of work overload. It was, overall, smooth sailing. Sailors need to know their sea.

The last seven days were a lesson for me, and a beautiful one too. I hope yours were spent with prayers and patience. Life is not all about grit. It’s all about grace. And in the next seven days, may you find lots of them.

Count on this: it was never just grace. It was never just mercy. All the while, we are under something big and beautiful and radiant, far more than math can measure. It’s not just a breath of forgiveness, not just a minute of favor. If you look at it closely, you cannot but feel grateful for the extreme stretching of an impossible. It was far more than asked for. It was extravagance.