Bridges of Words is a collection of haikus that capture the spirit, mood, and humanity of cultures around the world. Why was this an important book for you to write?

Words are bridges, I’ve always thought. A Filipino-Australian, I have experienced the nuances of cultural differences as well as the silent need for understanding after growing up in one society and now residing in another. Born prematurely in a military hospital in Nueva Ecija—where my grandmother’s refusal to choose between saving my mother or me led to both our survival—I was named Esperanza, meaning “hope.” That word has carried me through my life.

Language has the ability to bring people together and bridge emotional and physical divides in addition to informing and persuading. Through the delicate compression of haiku, rather than through dissertations or manifestos, Bridges of Words allowed me to celebrate humanity in all its textures. A haiku can capture a universe in three lines: the echo of memory, a stranger’s grin, a city street after rain.

It was also a historical experience to write this book. Japan, which occupied the Philippines during World War II and left behind heartbreaking memories of hardship and tenacity, is the source of haiku. However, engaging with this literary genre became an unconventional act of reconciliation for me. By capturing beauty and transience in the rigid yet simple syllables of haiku, I was able to recognise sorrow without being overcome by it.

Furthermore, forgiveness itself is a bridge, isn’t it? A bridge that lets us go on instead of lingering in the depths of bitterness or rage. Every haiku became a tiny act of construction, a step toward comprehension—a means of expressing that, in spite of our differences and past experiences, we can still live amicably through our common humanity.

Can you share a bit about your writing process? Do you have any rituals or routines when writing?

In addition to the other facets of my entrepreneurial and professional endeavours, writing has always been part of my daily life, though not always in the way one might imagine. From my earliest days, words have been my companions—whether scribbling on my aunts’ college books at age 3, writing verses as a Grade 5 student who unexpectedly won in a poetry contest, serving as the English literary editor of The OLCAn in high school, or later leading The Corps as its first female editor-in-chief at the Philippine Military Academy. That role, along with becoming the Academy’s first female Journalism Awardee and first Languages Plaque recipient, confirmed for me that words could be both a personal refuge and a public responsibility.

My naval career deepened this focus, as I became the inaugural Navy Digest editor and later worked on the Navy Journal, Fleet Journal, and Polaris Magazine. Today, I still edit multiple publications professionally, which keeps me grounded in the discipline and craft of writing.

But Bridges of Words emerged differently. Almost without notice, it came like a bolt of lightning across a still sky. Often, a single sight or memory would prompt me to act immediately. I still recall sitting at my computer here in Adelaide, the morning sun streaming through the blinds, when a haiku began to take shape in my mind. It was like attempting to capture a bird in midair; I had to do something before it vanished.

My approach had been less about routine and more about spontaneity. Sometimes it was the laughter of my sons, sometimes the witty jokes of my husband, sometimes a walk along South Australia’s beaches, sometimes the Zamboanga sunsets of my childhood, or the scenic sights of Taal Lake that never left my memory. That was my rhythm: focusing on the small moments and feeling driven to convey them in words that might resonate with someone else, somewhere else.

Do you have a favourite haiku in the book, and if so, why does it hold special meaning for you?

Logically, I should be more drawn to the haikus that depict the Philippines and Australia, because they are my own countries.

The Philippines’ haiku embodies resilience, a trait I witnessed from an early age. Growing up in a land prone to typhoons and eruptions, I listened to stories and even witnessed at times how families and communities would quietly rebuild lives and spirits with steady resolve. That everyday bravery—the quiet courage of people who simply endure—was etched into me from childhood.

In comparison, Australia exemplifies diversity and unity. When I first set foot in Sydney in 2006, I fell in love instantly with its order, beauty, and openness. Years later, settling in Adelaide with my family in 2010, I discovered a deeper sense of belonging. Here, languages, faiths, and cultures cohabit and enrich one another, and that spirit of coexistence is what I sought to capture in haiku.

Together, these two countries’ haikus create a bridge that spans place and time, tying together memory and lived experience, origin and destination, past and present. Poetry is not only an art of words; it is an edifice of human experience—it speaks of the depth and resilience of human life.

That said, there’s no simple or safe way to answer this question. It feels like being asked which of my children I love the most. Every haiku in Bridges of Words has its own pulse and memory. Just as I cannot love one of my children—Huey, Sev, or Noah—more than his siblings, I cannot favour one poem over the rest. Each carries its weight; each is a bridge.

What is the next book you are working on, and when will it be available?

To be honest, I haven’t made any firm plans yet. Like Bridges of Words, I have a feeling that the next project will develop naturally, as I feel driven to capture it in the moment. For me, book writing started with intuition rather than a plan—a vision, a memory, or a passing idea that begged to be put into words. Perhaps in ways I cannot yet foresee, the next piece will continue to examine metaphorical bridges—between locations, times, or the silent, unseen moments of our everyday existence, though possibly in an altogether different way. I’m letting it take shape for the time being, trusting that the right words will emerge when the moment is right. In the end, writing is simply my way of building small bridges—one fleeting moment, one word, one resonance at a time.

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