A fisherman went out to sea and hooked his luck in the form of a decent-sized snapper.
He took it home, gutted it, removed the gills, and scraped off the shiny scales.
Before cooking it, he seasoned it with salt.
It didn’t matter how long that snapper lived in the sea.
One thing was certain—the salt never got through its scales.
I heard that analogy from a pastor when I was an OFW in Kuwait.
When I heard it, I immediately remembered one of Nanay’s principles. She told me this after I got paid for an opium bed I made for a client:
“Hindi dapat baguhin ng pera ang pamumuhay mo.”
I nodded.
But I think shaking my head up and down in affirmation also shook the wisdom right out of it.
What could I do? I was sixteen years old, holding a five-digit payment that wouldn’t drop to four—even if I bought a brand-new BMX, two pairs of rubber shoes, and six pairs of Levi’s 501s.
Nanay asked for only one thing:
Five hundred pesos—as rent for the backyard and utilities of my little shop.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Food, bed, and household utilities were still free.
I handed her what I earned, but she gave it back. She said I needed to learn how to handle my own finances first—understand whether I could or could not.
She added,
“Hindi lahat marunong humawak ng pera. Ang paggawa ng pera, natututunan. Ang paghawak, hindi. Kaya maraming hindi nakakaginhawa kahit sobrang sipag at walang tigil magtrabaho. Wala ‘yan sa laki o liit ng pera—nasa paghawak ‘yan.”
That was the first time I felt money in my pocket.
One month—maybe even less—my savings account was down to three hundred pesos, barely alive.
My closet, however, was full of fancy clothes I couldn’t even wear.
I was a student—I wore a uniform.
I worked in the backyard—I wore giveaway shirts from the local hardware every Christmas.
I wore jeans, but the old, torn ones. If not those, basketball shorts from summer leagues.
The 501s?
They lasted for years, barely worn, eventually lost—along with the BMX I couldn’t even remember what happened to.
At least I got some consolation from the shoes.
It’s okay to spend the money we earn on anything we want.
But spending wisely will always be the better option.
I don’t speak for everyone. I don’t preach.
But money changed my lifestyle.
That’s when I swore to stop meddling with money matters. I entrusted my finances to Nanay.
We were doing okay—for about a year.
Then she had to undergo dialysis.
Three years later, she passed away.
And I was lost.
I knew how to generate money.
But keeping it in my pocket? That was a different story.
I couldn’t tame it.
I went from broke to millionaire, then from millionaire to broke—all in a heartbeat.
I got abused by partners so many times that trusting people became difficult. Faith in humanity started to feel expensive.
Then came the summer of 2012.
I met “the safekeeper.”
We worked on a few projects together, until one day we decided to form a partnership.
She asked, “How much equity do we get?”
I said, “60/40.”
She frowned. “Bakit hindi pantay?”
“Sa’yo ang 60,” I replied.
She looked puzzled. “Bakit ako ang lamang?”
My answer was honest—brutally honest.
“Para hindi ka na mag-isip kung paano mo ako lamangin.”
Just like that, Journey WoodBlock was registered. Business began.
We worked hard. We worked smart.
And eventually, we found favor—not just with finances, but with each other’s hearts.
We never planned on falling in love.
But she was too wonderful, too beautiful—amazing became an understatement.
Since the day we partnered in 2012, I have never asked for financial statements, company worth, or bank access—nothing. Not once.
And I am content.
My pocket may not be full, but I lack nothing.
Food on the table.
Water in my glass.
Coffee in my cup.
A roof over my head.
A dry place to lay my back when I’m tired.
Best of all—my kids around me, and my wife beside me.
Those two are priceless. No amount of money can buy them.
Until now, I still take public transportation to work.
I still eat at random food stalls.
And until now, I still hear Nanay’s voice:
“Ang mga paa, anak, dapat laging nakasayad sa lupa.”
I still think about what Nanay told me—about people who cannot tame money.
I think I am one of them.
I believe the only difference between me and others is that I admitted it.
What life principle are you holding on to—one that came from your Nanay or Tatay
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters
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