Blue Eyes

I picked a bench that was in the sun.

In that place, depending on the season, people avoided or followed the sun. Since it was the cooler month of February, shade was avoided.

People crossed the street so that they could walk on the sunny side. By the river they sat where the grass was greenest, basking in the sun’s warmth. And if you knew the city well enough, and knew the angles of the sun, then you knew where to find its heat. Even in the maze of cobbled streets. For whether the sun was in the east or the west, you could find which roads would be shaded and chilly, and which would be bright and warm.

I was in Seville, Spain. And like these people, I followed the sun.

Walking to the end of La Avenida de la Constitución, I found myself at a plaza. There I sat on a bench made of cement. It was hot. People were all around. The murmur of their passing conversations was comforting.

I could hear the trickle of the water fountain.

Hippies sat nearby with drums, beating a deep rhythm throughout the street.

Bike bells chimed briefly. And then passed.

Girls laughed. Giggled. Screamed.

Dogs barked.

Boys shouted.

Skateboard wheels rumbled over the sidewalk.

The wings of pigeons whooshed. Flapped.

Their throaty “coo” soft and barely there. Settling at the fountain.

A taxi honked.

A moped’s motor rattled by.

Wheels from horse-pulled wagons echoed.

The callapity-clap of hooves on cobble repeated.

It may seem like chaos. But it was peaceful commotion.

I rested there. My bag at my feet. Hair up, the sun on my neck. Orange peels on my lap. Turning the pages of a Hemingway book.

Minutes passed.

Pages turned.

An hour gone. There was no wind, just the sun and its heat. I closed my eyes.

A slow shuffle of footsteps I heard, and then slight noises at my side. I opened my eyes, and looked into the clear blue eyes of an old man. He wore a bright orange sweater, khaki pants, and thick brown shoes. His wrinkled hands rested on a walking cane.

I smiled at him, shyly. And he asked me, “Está bien si yo hable contigo?” Is it okay if I talk with you? Surprised and curious, I said, “Sí.” Yes.

The first thing he told me was that he walked the same path to this plaza almost every day. But now he walked it alone. His wife had passed away last year. He shared stories about the people he saw, and how many of these people also came here daily. There was a rhythm and pattern that these people followed. A routine.

He called himself Pepe, a nickname for José.

I told him my name. “Me llamo Kelly.”

He smiled. His teeth were crooked, some missing, and stained from coffee and tobacco. But his smile was in his eyes, so bright that they were even distracting, and made up for the sparkle that his teeth lacked. And he said, “Que hermoso.” What a beautiful name.

Our conversation continued…

And then for a while we sat without speaking at all, just listening to the sounds and people around us.

When I think back on it now, I don’t remember all the details of that conversation, but more of how I felt. Our talk was so simple. Peaceful and uncomplicated. There was a genuine interest in the simple words that we exchanged.

And maybe now as you’re reading to the end of this, you’re wondering, “What was the point of this story?” The point is that there is no point. At least in the time that the conversation actually took place, there was no point. It was just a nice experience. Pleasant company.

But even so, among the many other interactions and conversations that have taken place in my life, there are many that have been forgotten. However, this is one encounter with another person that I clearly remember, and can still feel the effects of peace that it brought to my heart. And for this, I am somehow different from it.

So in honor of the old man with distracting blue eyes, I share this story.

Faith In Your Insignificance

No matter what we lose or gain, who we were, are or will become, what we did or didn’t do, and so on…

As big as your life seems to you, do you see that amidst grand sweeps of steel and time, you only cast a small shadow? As important as you are, can you also face your own insignificance?

I know I know. It’s the opposite of what most of us hear: “You’re special; you’re important; you make a difference; you’re going to change things.”

And I believe those things will happen for each one of us.

What I’m getting at is that we are fragile, temporary beings, made of sinew and bone, just waiting to become dust. But what makes us last, even when we are gone, is our commonality to one another.

Even through our differences we are brought together. Truly though, we are all the same, not just biologically, but also through our family and friends, our relationships. Even in our fears, hopes, dreams, cruelty and goodness—we are the same. And within this exists both our uniqueness and insignificance.

So what do we keep trying to figure out? What do we keep planning for? What are we expecting life to tell us?

(I ask myself all these questions too. I’m not writing this because I have it all figured out, but because I’m still wondering if any of these questions have answers.)

God has a plan, yes. But He’s the only one that knows it.

Have you figured that out yet? And even if you don’t believe in God, have you figured out the power of destiny and the cosmos over your own attempts to plan your life?

So if life is not in our hands, what does this mean? Do we not have influence in what happens to us tomorrow?

Well yes, we do have influence. And this influence stems from faith.

What? But isn’t faith based on belief rather than proof?

Yes it is. And for this, faith is liberating. Do you see that? It is, in a way to surrender you days, to let go, and to put your life in His hands.

If you have faith, you can:

• Be uprooted—released from fear and immobility—and allow yourself to move from the familiar to the unexplored, and let yourself grow throughout this entire world.
• Leave tomorrow unplanned, and be as wild as a March wind.
• Expand beyond your wonders, and be brave enough to wander also.
• Leave beauty undefined, and capable in every day.
• Give a little more than you thought, and forget about being secreted away.
• Reuse what most think is broken—have faith in the scraps and our need not to waste.
• Believe in the birdsongs and our connection with nature.
• Wake at the rising hour, your hour.
• Endure sorrow and solitude.
• Live in the good moments and know there are still more to come.
• Stop dreaming about the other side and see the beauty that’s already been here all along.

Through faith we can do all this and more. In faith we know God. In faith is strength and freedom. With faith we can be uprooted and unsure…we can be our self…we can be each other…because we are common, we are all the same…I am because we all are…that is humanity.

Do you feel me?

Antonia’s Lemon Tree

When you read these stories, will you expect nothing more than that they are ordinary and simple. For—though unique as we all are—much of our life passes in an ordinary and simple way. But it is in this way that life is extraordinary.

We will wander. We will search. And through it all, we will have trod a very common pilgrimage. It is on this pilgrimage that we share our lives and this world with each other. It is on these roads—engraved by the common people—where we will ultimately end.

Antonia is 73-years-old. The wrinkles that travel across her face, the glint in her eyes, and the seriousness of her gaze reveal a life deeply lived—a life of love, devotion, humility, strength, and courage. She is like Tibet—with a beautiful soul, a mysterious past, and wisdom of spirit and adventure I have yet to experience.

Her display of feelings and opinions are raw and captivating. Uninhibited. She seems fearless. This daring expression of one’s self—born in her from her Hispanic culture—is what I admire most about her. Antonia’s culture has raised her to be totally secure in her emotions. She has been taught to feel life.

The stories she tells are vivid. I am pulled back in time; I can see the Mexican countryside; and imagine the people. The world is still the same, yet different—it is her world.

Antonia came from a family poor in material possessions, but rich in their faith and love for one another.

They lived in a modest square house, with dirt floors, and few belongings. There were nine children, her mother who worked hard at home to take care of them all, and her father who worked long days on a farm.

At sunrise, her father would already be gone, working from dawn through twilight. His family would wait for his return, when they would then eat dinner together. They sat in a circle, cross-legged on the dirt floor, each eating a corn tortilla, what they had also eaten for lunch.

Lemon trees grew throughout the entire neighborhood. With her brothers and sisters, she would climb them, picking their fruit.

Skipping down a dusty road, beneath the blazing sun, on their little legs they would race to the lemon trees. Laughing, as children do, they would push each other up the trunks, scrambling to hang onto the tree’s limbs.

Climbing the rough branches, each of their five fingers would reach as high as possible through the vibrant green leaves. Eagerly they would pluck the yellow fruit, passing it down to waiting hands that made a pile of lemons at the base of the tree. With their treasures bundled up in their t-shirts, proud of their work, they ran back home.

As long as they had lemons, the tea would be sweet and so would the corn tortillas.

Like I said, the story is not one of extraordinary adventure and heroism. Nonetheless, it is still a story of a miracle: A Day Lived.

And as those days accumulated, Antonia’s childhood taught her the importance of hard work, humility, play, and devotion to those she loved.

May the days of our own childhood have taught us the same.