In school, when we were kids, we were presented with a magnificent, almost divine image of Mayon Volcano. In our textbooks, Mayon is often described in superlatives. Rising 2,463 meters above Albay, its near-perfect cone shape has made it one of the most recognizable natural landmarks in the Philippines. On clear days, it appears almost composed—its symmetry so precise that it has long been treated as a visual emblem of natural beauty, featured in tourism campaigns and postcards alike.

I have seen it countless times during my visits to the region, especially when the pilot makes that turn prior to landing in Legazpi City, giving passengers a sweeping view of this natural wonder. During my years as a public servant, I never tired of seeing the volcano from the road, particularly on clear days when Mayon seems to allow the world to stand in awe of her beauty. Even when visiting our property developments in Bicol, I would always hope for clear skies, just for a glimpse of the enchanting Mayon.

But this same wonder is also a force of destruction. Mayon is considered the most active among the country’s 24 restive volcanoes, having erupted more than 50 times in recorded history. Some of these eruptions have displaced tens of thousands of residents and claimed hundreds of lives. These events are not anomalies but part of a recurring cycle, closely monitored by volcanologists and government authorities who must constantly weigh risk against the realities of communities living within its danger zones.

Just a few days ago, Mayon erupted, spewing ash and debris across Albay and the wider Bicol region. According to the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology (Phivolcs), pyroclastic density currents (PDCs) caused massive ashfall affecting 128 villages, including those in Camalig, Guinobatan, Ligao City, and Oas. The mayor of Guinobatan reported that more than 26,000 people have been affected in her town alone. Phivolcs also recorded 32 volcanic earthquakes, including 25 tremor events lasting up to 15 minutes, 284 rockfall events, and 14 PDC signals.

This dual identity—beauty and destruction—defines how Mayon is seen and regarded. The same slopes that attract tourists are marked by lahar channels and hardened lava flows, reminders of past eruptions. It is both its nature and its story. During my past visits, locals often recount the legend of Daragang Magayon, the “Beautiful Maiden,” who fell in love with the warrior Panganoron. Their tragic fate is said to have given rise to the volcano itself—a story where beauty, love, and loss are forever intertwined.

My family and I pray for the safety of our fellow Filipinos in Bicol, especially those directly affected by the recent eruption. I hope that local authorities have the capacity to provide displaced families with shelter, food, and other necessities. As we have seen time and again, our people have a way of coming together in moments like this.

Mayon’s beauty lies not only in serenity, but in a volatile balance—where aesthetic perfection coexists with the constant possibility of disruption. Even in eruption, Mayon resists being stripped of its beauty. Photos circulating on social media show ash clouds blanketing the sky, at times almost painterly from a distance, as if the volcano itself were staging a spectacle. Yet that same ash settles heavily, covering homes, destroying crops, and dimming daylight into an uncertain haze. It is a beauty with consequences, revealing how closely grandeur and destruction can share the same breath.

In moments like these, human presence feels fleeting and small. Mayon reminds us that our sense of permanence is fragile, and that we exist within a natural world that moves according to its own terms—indifferent to how it is seen, named, or remembered.

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