July 14, 2013 11:14
As I walked along the meagre creek in the summer, I felt the humidity in the air and that calming sensation that produces the sound of the foliage in the forest. But when I walked under the sun, it felt very hot, so, after a while, I laid on a huge shaded rock, staring at the bright blue sky. I rested – calm and relaxed. The sound of silence could be heard.
The lake was almost still with sail boats looming in the horizon. Huge rocks and pebbles and stones border it. And as I walked I picked up the ones that please me, with rounded edges and different colours – I enjoy their shape – and continued looking for more rocks. And, I imagine them on my shelf, with my vase, and my lava rock; yes, real lava rock from Santiago Volcano in Masaya, Nicaragua.
I continued my walk and I could hear a bird chirping continuously looking for a mate. There were wild roses on the sides of the trail, and blackberries that I ate – wild and small – no pesticide on site, and the trees were huge, some rotting on the border of the creek; and, at times the trail, bathed in sunshine, bloomed with weeds growing freely and butterflies and bees pollinating them. But there were few butterflies, I noticed, as well as fewer bees.
I reached a street, with manicured lawn houses bordering onto the ravine, and one caught my attention. The garden flowed onto the side of the street like a cascade of yellow, orange, and red wild flowers and, among them, a splash of big white daisies with its yellow centres. I stopped to admire them and take photos. Two trees provided shade to the entrance of the cars, where a small path of handmade stepping stones serpentined on the garden towards the house. There, sitting on a chair, a lady in her late eighties sat amid her garage sale items. I walked towards her and cheerfully asked if she was the artist who had created such a beautiful garden. She smiled back and answered ‘yes’, and as she stood up, she said, ‘I also made those stepping stones with encrusted glass, and the post where the number of the house hangs. I work with cement, too’, she added. And I looked closely at the post, I had not noticed before. You are an artist, I said, ‘I am an artist too – I paint’. And as she smiled back with open arms, I asked her, ‘Because you are an artist too, may I give you a hug?’, she was a bit startled, smiled back and answered ‘yes’, and I embraced her with a warm, caring hug, and she hugged me back.
She sat back on her chair and said to me ‘last December I had to take my son to a home. He has Alzheimer, you know, so, I am selling all his items, because he is not coming back. And pretty soon, I will be starting to sell mine. I will be here at the most, five years’, she continued, ‘but in the meantime, I enjoy my house and am working with glass and on my garden.’ I told her that I had enjoyed her garden so much that I had taken photos also to preserve them in my memory. And she added, ‘I had planted poppies also but the wild flowers overtook them and now there are none’. ‘If you want’, she continued, ‘I can save seeds from the flowers, for you to take’. I thanked her saying I would be back for the seeds and waved farewell; and as I walked away, I turned my head and looked back at those beautiful wild flowers and I smiled remembering my mom, who used to tell me that I have a six sense, I am a perceiver.
I am so glad I hugged her, as she is completely alone. And even though it was the hug from a complete stranger, it was a warm, caring hug, because she hugged me back.