Tag Archives: Love

Day Nine: Homeward

What I hadn’t yet experienced was a real New York bagel.  One local guy suggested Tompkins Square Bagels, about six blocks from my room.  So I went, on my last morning.  There were laughing guys behind the counter, smiling patrons in front of it.  Just a wee place but it felt like I was entering the hall of gastronomic fame.

Sourdough looked good and so did blueberry cream cheese.  I guarantee you that the taste was far better.  How can bagels be this soft and yummy?  I sat at my little table, watching people and savouring my breakie.  Even the coffee was good.

I thought ahead to the Newark Liberty International Airport, waiting for my flight to be called, hungry.  How about a bagel to go?  In an instant the choice was clear … pumpernickel with bacon cream cheese.  Decadence of the delayed gratification genre.

Back on the street, I talked to myself.  “You’re tired.  You have this big suitcase.  Subway stations don’t have elevators from the surface to the bowels > > > Get a cab!”  My adventurous spirit was fading away as I raised my arm, beckoning to a whizzing yellow object passing by on the opposite side of the street.  “He’ll turn around for me.”  He didn’t.  So I waited for maybe ten minutes, arm at the ready.  No cabs.

I glanced over to the familiar bus stop and my insides shifted.  “No cab indeed.”  Three minutes later, I was hauling my local world onto the public beast.  “One more time … I can do this.  It’ll just take a transfer or two.”  Later, as I soared through the air en route to Toronto, I added up the vehicles of my day – it came to eleven.  M14A bus > 4 subway > 7 subway > 2 subway > New Jersey Transit train to the Newark Airport > Skytrain to Terminal B > Porter Flight PD 130 to Toronto > Billy Bishop Airport shuttle bus to Union Station > UP Express to Pearson Airport > Skyway Park shuttle van to Scarlet > two hour drive home.  Piece of cake.  I handled the luggaged stairs, I found elevators, I balanced on escalators, I had fun.  Dear taxi, you’re just not needed today.

Even though I was in airplane mode above New York State, I could still compose a blog post about Thursday.  I wrote and wrote about the 911 Museum.  It was difficult writing, since my heart had entered my fingers.  Upon arrival in Toronto, I sat in the airport lounge, did some editing, and prepared to click “Post”.  Click.  Then I copied my message to Facebook.  I also use that platform to post some photos.  I came to the one which showed Bruce’s name, one of the 911 victims, carved into a long metal plate.  I looked more closely.  Above “Bruce Douglas Boehm” was another, and my breath ceased.  It was “Brooke Alexandra Jackman”, the woman whose “missing” poster I had spied the day before, the woman whom I had adopted in love.  The metal plates encircled the two reflecting pools which were the locations of the twin towers.  The number of names inscribed was 2977.  And still, it was Bruce and Brooke.

Love lives

Day Three (and Four!): In Love

I’ve been totally absorbed in supporting the members of the Evolutionary Collective as they meet in New York. So I haven’t blogged since Friday. I’ll make up for it over the next few days!

***

(Saturday) Usually when we hear that someone is in love, we think of a couple. Yesterday, I was “within love” with thirty other people. The eastern part of the Evolutionary Collective Core is meeting in New York for three days. And I get to assist. Although it’s not appropriate for me to share the specific practices we do, I can give you the flavour of our togetherness.

In this work, we make contact with other human beings. We “see” each other. Maybe that’s where the word “core” comes from. And we also go far beyond the relationship between two or three people. We’re participating in the evolution of consciousness in the world towards a place where no one is left out. Someone walks into a room and the group’s response is “Super! Another person to be with, to learn from, to love.” I sense a yearning in the world to touch – physically and spiritually. May love evolve through all of us.

(Monday) I’m in Scotty’s Diner on Lexington Avenue, waiting for my friend “Terry” to join me for breakfast. Yesterday late afternoon, we two assistants sat in the lobby of the Affinia Shelburne Hotel, realizing that all our EC friends had left for airports, trains … for home. I felt a momentary loneliness but then it came through clearly – neither distance nor time can separate us. They’re all with me as I sit here tapping away.

Before our meeting was to start yesterday at 10:00 am, the room manager “Denise” realized that the candle at the front of the room had burned out. The hotel didn’t have any appropriate replacement so I volunteered to find one downtown somewhere. Mr. Google told me about Diptyque a few blocks away, and it was open! The candle shop was down some corridor in an office building. Even with the shortness of time, I trusted that all would be revealed to me in moments. It turned out to be many moments. And when I got there, the store was dark. Ahh … truth in advertising.

I looked inside and wondered at my calm. 9:35. Clearly it was time to discover the glories of riding a cab in NYC. Bed Bath and Beyond was about ten blocks away. The cabbie was friendly and efficient. He commented that traffic was so light this morning. Okay, not exactly my perspective.

Into the store I rushed and asked for candles. “Downstairs, turn left, way down the aisle past pet supplies.” Sure, I can do that. I found a lovely round candle in a clear glass container … looked kind of elegant. I paid for my treasure and was soon back on the street, arm up, flagging down a cab like a local. 9:48. The driver heard the hotel address and headed for a freeway ramp. Yay for local knowledge.

9:57. Therough the door of the meeting room. Candle placed on the round table at the front, accompanied by a lovely bouquet of floors. A box of matches sat there, invitingly. Done deal.

This morning, in the darkness of my mind, I stubbed my toe on the two-inch rise from the kitchen to the bathroom. Oww! And now, after breakie, it still hurts a lot. Strangely and miraculously, though, I’m not adding anything to the pain. No “Ain’t it awful?” No angst about how life is treating me unfairly. Clearly the human beings I’ve just spent three days with are having their effect. Once Terry leaves on his bus for New Hampshire, I’m off to explore Central Park … slowly.

There, I’m back on track with you. Wonders of New York are ready to welcome me. Please walk with me over the next four days.

Wonders of the World

I saw two inspiring sights today: one was a huge orange moon. The other was a human face.

As I drove home from London a couple of hours ago, the moon hung low over the highway. All was black around, and it shone like a beacon in the sky. My breath slowed and the beauty came home.

Other beauties of the world have come my way, and I have been blessed to be in their presence. A few weeks ago, there were the thousand-year-old buildings of Ghent, Belgium, glowing with Christmas lights. Many years past, I climbed a sandy ridge on the west coast of Vancouver Island to see at the summit miles of Long Beach, the waves from Japan crashing onto the sand below.

I have stood atop Mount Lineham in Alberta’s Waterton Lakes National Park, a sea of peaks spread before me. I have seen the golden harbour of Toubacouta, Senegal at sunset, with fishing boats lying at rest. I have sat within a hollowed-out cave on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario, gazing at the sky above.

All these reminders of transcendence, and more, have graced my life. The land, the sea and the structures of man have made me happy.

But the best and brightest of wonders reside in the human face:

My eight-year-old friend Ali in Senegal, smiling into my eyes
as he shook my hand “Bonjour”

My dear wife Jodiette gazing deep into me
as we shared a window table
in Chez Temporel
a sweet restaurant on Quebec City’s Rue Couillard

My friend Sharyn being with me
in a mutual awakening practice this afternoon
the space between us glowing with love

***

No need to travel to the far corners of the world for beauty
although you will also find it there
Just look, really look, at the person beside you

Kenosis

In Christian theology, kenosis is the self- emptying of Jesus’ own will and becoming entirely receptive to God’s divine will.

Google

Over and over, Jesus lays this path before us.  There is nothing to be renounced or resisted.  Everything can be embraced, but the catch is to cling to nothing.  You let it go.  You go through life like a knife goes through a done cake, picking up nothing, clinging to nothing, sticking to nothing.  And grounded in that fundamental chastity of your being, you can then throw yourself out, being able to give it all back, even giving back life itself.  That’s the kenotic path in a nutshell.  Very, very simple.  It only costs everything.

Cynthia Bourgeault

***

Alrighty then … I’ll just fall into a life of contribution with no thought for the reward, no need to achieve anything or to be adored.  “Just give, Bruce, moment after moment, until your breathing stops.  Have your life be a symphony, with all those marvelous folks flowing beside you, playing with you, creating magic together.”  And no need to have them live in your house, to be enclosed by the constraints of your mind.  Enjoy them, and let them go.  Over and over.

***

What am I willing to let float away?

Being in Senegal
Being loved by Ali and Mariama
Being loved by my Belgian friend Lydia
Being healthy
Being in the Evolutionary Collective
Living a long time
Listening to concerts from the front row
Eating pesto pasta
Volunteering with 11-year-olds
Watching Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again for the umpteenth time
Picking up garbage on my way to the Belmont Diner
Sitting at the counter or at “the women’s table” at the Diner
Travelling … anywhere
Making people laugh
Writing these blog posts
Having another life partner
Living past tomorrow

***

Quite the list of things to let go of
Quite the opportunity to give without restraint or expectation
Quite the smile on my face

The Gift of Illness

It’s a strange life, with the body sometimes just zipping along and at other times dragging its feet.  My feet are low right now and it’s such a opportunity to see what life is really all about.

What’s possible in the moment when you’re hurting physically?  To what extent can we move beyond the yuckiness to truly be with people?  These are good questions because I intend to contribute to my fellow travellers no matter what life is serving up.

I’ve discovered that I often cough when I’m moved by other folks, when I’m feeling love.  That started happening in Belgium when I was enjoying the presence of Lydia and Jo and their family and friends.  Then we went to Senegal and the openness of the people touched me deeply.  “I’m glad you’re here” came up to me again and again.

Other parts of Senegal were not so kind, especially to my lungs. Toubacouta is in a very dry area and the town has dirt streets.  Dust floated everywhere, including into me.

A lot of people moved about on motos – small motorcycles.  They not only stirred up the dust, their tailpipes spewed out exhuast fumes without any pollution controls.  I spent a lot of time on the back of a moto.  When we travelled on the highway, passing cars and trucks fed me more poisonous gas.

Finally, some folks near me smoked.  I often moved away when they were lighting up.

Given all these inputs, what to do?  Certainly not hide out in my room.  The beauty of the Senegalese people far outweighed my breathing problems.  I continued to interact with the kids and adults, to joy in their joy, to revel in a deep level of personal contact with each other.  And I’ll do exactly that when I come back in December.

In Senegal, I coughed a lot and Lydia worried about me.  Back home in Canada, the doctor says I have bronchitis and penicillin will fix me up fine over the next few days.

I got home last night and soon had a two-hour internet call with about forty members of the Evolutionary Collective.  This was a call we had all agreed to be on and there’s great power in keeping your word.  But the coughing was out of hand and I felt myself contract.  “These people shouldn’t be exposed to all this noise you’re making.”  Well, that is an opinion but it wasn’t going to hold sway with me.

Soon into the session, we were paired up.  “Jessica” spoke for the first five minutes.  I worked hard on suppressing the cough instead of totally being with her.  Then it was my turn.  Speak, cough, speak, cough … My eyes kept leaving Jessica’s, and then returning.  She just was with me, all of me.  I felt so naked and yet so loved.  Everything was fine, even my body’s loud reactions to congestion.  Thank you, Jessica.

Later seven of us did an exercise together.  Part of the experience was to have each person read the agreements we were entering into.  When it was my turn, I couldn’t get the words out so others took turns picking up the slack.  One more time I felt included.

Yes, these moments are gifts if I have the eyes to see.  And I intend to keep looking.

Day Twenty-Three: To Toronto

It was a 6:00 am rising for the trip home. Lore and Baziel promised they’d get up at 7:00 to say goodbye. They kept their word. I hugged each of them and told them that I loved them. Such wonderful teenagers who will be great adults, ones with big hearts and huge contributions to make in our wide world. As we loaded the car, Baziel stood at the window for a few minutes, staying in touch.

Jo and Lydia drove me the hour to Brussels Airport. Sometimes she was sniffling in the front seat in the darkness.

We sat in a café having a coffee and croissant but the time was soon for parting. They walked me to the gate. Jo and I hugged and I told him that I loved him.

And then … Lydia. We turned to each other and started crying. We held each other with Jo smiling beside. She messed my hair and we said what was oh so very true.

As we walked in Belgium and Senegal, Lydia would often grab my arm. Sometimes it was her linked with Jo on one side and me on the other. A great joie de vivre as we strolled along.

If in August, 2017 on a hiking trail in Alberta Lydia Dutrieue hadn’t said “Would you like to come with us?” I wouldn’t be crying right now. I wouldn’t have held hands with Senegalese kids and kissed the cheeks of many adults. I wouldn’t now have Mareama and Youssoupha in my life. (I’ve been spelling his name wrong.) Thank you, Lydia, for moving right into my life and calling it home. You are my friend.

***

It’s four-and-a-half hours into the sky. I’ve had a delicious meal of penne pasta with a tomato sauce; a multi-flavoured salad full of greens, reds, little cheese balls and walnuts; a warm bun; an almond tart … and definitely the red wine. Wow. And that’s not even the best. I just finished watching Les Misérables for the first time. So much human communion there – love, sadness, loneliness, death – all wrapped in a blanket of song. Stunning.

***

I wonder what’s next in this life of mine. I know it’ll be about friends – in Belmont, in the Evolutionary Collective, in London, in Toronto and most definitely in Belgium and Senegal. I am blessed.

***

Okay, that was a very long flight. I am quite perfectly pooped and very glad to be staying with Anne and Ihor in Toronto tonight. I need to be good to myself and stay off the 401 in the dark when I’m this tired.

Belgium and Senegal were marvels in my world. I loved and was loved. Can you think of anything better? No, I can’t either. I’m going back in 2019 to both places … with bells on.

Thank you for sharing these twenty-three days with me. I’ve loved writing to you.

Day Twenty-One: Goodbye Senegal

Who would have thought it would be so hard? After all, it’s just another country, admittedly with astoundingly different landscapes, animals and architecture. I took lots of pictures of my surroundings so I’ll be able to remember the details of Senegal.

That’s all very fine but what of the people? They are the joy, with their smiles of welcome, their “Ça va?”s and their touches. When a child walks into a group situation, all but the youngest stroll around shaking hands. Women greet men and women with three kisses on the cheek – left right left or right left right. Take your pick. Be ready to immerse yourself in “I’m glad you’re here.” Have it be fine to touch and be touched, whether you’re with the young or old. Touching is a gift of communion. Only with your partner is it also about sex. I realize at home I can’t walk around the schoolyard holding hands with kids but it sure happens in Senegal.

This morning, as we prepared to get on the van for the four hour ride to Dakar, Ali, Aziz and Ansou – three brothers – were there to say goodbye. Ali and I took each other’s hands and looked into each other’s eyes for thirty seconds or so. Then we hugged, and I brushed the backs of my fingers against his cheek. “Je t’aime” were the words from me to him. His eyes said the same.

I had talked to a young woman named Nima over the last eleven days, and then this morning. She doesn’t know much English and I’m the same with French. Just before I took the step up into the van, we looked into each other … and waved. Time stood still.

On the surface of things, the Senegalese folks don’t have much. Everyone seems to own a cell phone but that’s one of their very few modern pleasures. But, oh, how rich the people are. You feel it.

Mother Teresa was speaking in the United States some years ago. Reporters were curious about the extent of poverty in India. She admitted that physical life was very hard for many residents. “But here in North America, you are truly impoverished.” Wanting in spirit, in “being with”, in caring.

I’m now on a plane from Lisbon, Portugal to Brussels, Belgium. The hot temperatures are long gone. Some of us are busy with our Smartphones, even though there is no internet connection. The meal, all nice and tidy in its plastic containers, was delicious. Something is missing, however. Perhaps it’s up to me to bring it to life.

On the previous leg, from Dakar to Lisbon, I sat beside a woman who was … “prickly”. She and her husband were returning from a group birdwatching tour in Senegal and Gambia. I asked her about the birds she most enjoyed but it soon became clear that she didn’t want to talk. It seemed that she wasn’t keen on talking to her husband either. As soon as the plane had come to a complete stop, she was out of her seat like a shot, getting her stuff from the overhead bin. No goodbye. And that’s okay. She has her life to lead.

But I miss Iced Tea, Fatou, Nano, Ja Ja, Bakary, Boundao and Mamadou. I’ve been spoiled.

Ahh … Senegal. What’s possible between you and me?

Day Twenty: The School

I’m a retired teacher and I wanted to see how it was for Senegalese kids in the classroom. Yesterday Lydia took us to see the local school for young children, up to age 6 or so. I had some interest in what the staff would be teaching but really all I wanted to do was hang out with the young ones.

The teacher was an absolutely glowing woman wearing a vibrant yellow dress. She didn’t need the dress to be a force of life.

The first group of kids was sitting under a tree. They looked long and long at my white skin and soon were replying in kind to my strange facial expressions. As I sat in a chair, I tried to hide behind the boy who was right in my face in the front row. I kept looking past his head – left, right and above – to make a little girl behind him laugh. Soon she was bobbing and weaving … hiding from me! I loved it.

Then I was ushered inside a large schoolhouse – one big classroom and two little ones. Heads jerked my way immediately. Inside one of the small rooms were the four-year-olds. First of all, they kept their distance but many eyes were locked onto mine. Soon kids inched forward as I made strange sounds which they tried to repeat. And then it was a free-for-all. Kids came at me from all directions, rubbing my face and arms, squeezing my cheeks and grabbing all ten digits. I thought one or more of them were going to break a finger. But then I breathed and let go into the scrum. Fear blew away and all there was was pressure. Oh my. A first-ever experience.

In the big room, some kids were at tables with what appeared to be colouring books in front of them. Actually the drawings were depicting health problems in Senegal, and seemed to be teaching empathy. Which student on this page is vomiting? Who on this page is sad?

In my hour or more at the school, I never saw a child printing letters with a pencil. Instead they would circle things.

Soon it was snack time, and I had a lineup of kids scrambling to have me open a plastic package or lid. I felt so important. Child after child wanted to touch me, and I believe to be touched by me. What a privilege to be in the middle of such energy. Delight flowed from kids to adult and right back again.

***

Later in the day, Eva wanted to deliver some clothes to the family compound which some of us visited a few days ago. This was where I saw children who didn’t go to school and who may never live beyond the homes where they were born. Eva, Mamadou, Yusefa and I were welcomed just as heartily as the group was before.

I saw the same teenaged girl, dressed in very dirty clothes and looking so sad. We were invited past the tablecloth which hung at the entrance to a house, and I held the cloth open, gesturing for her to enter before me. She gave me such a sweet smile, hesitated, and then went in. My heart was breaking for her. I pray that she’s not the victim of sexual abuse and that she has a friend somewhere near her age. Later Eva told me that she had brought some clothes for the girl. That made me happy.

***

A few hundred metres from where this family lives is the highway. Days ago, when our convoy of motos stopped there, I saw a group of kids behind a barbed wire fence and made sweeping arm gestures with them, pirouettes, funny faces … all of which they repeated. It was a lovely time of contact but I left without taking their picture. This time, I hoped to correct that problem.

And there they were! One young girl especially remembered me and soon she and her friends and I were kicking empty cans and jars around in a wild soccer game. I tried to be goalie with my legs spread wide. The young athletes scored on me every time, much to their delight (and mine). The parents were laughing at our antics and dad gave me a large bag of locally grown peanuts in thanks. Wow.

***

It was such a full day, especially in the realm of the heart. As I sat with Lydia and Jo somewhere in Toubacouta, I asked how I could help. Lydia replied that they have gathered about twenty children from different families. They challenge these kids to do well at school. If they do their best, Lydia and Jo arrange sponsors for them – monthly financial support for a long, long time.

She thought there were two kids who still needed help – a teenaged boy and a young girl. I said that I’d sponsor them both. Lydia said she’d check her paperwork back at the house to see if what she said was correct.

The actual situation turned out to be that it was two teenagers who needed assistance – a nineteen-year-old girl and a sixteen(?)-year-old boy. And I know them both: Mareama, who helped me get a pair of pantaloons made, and Yusefa, who drives me on the moto. Later, Lydia and Jo invited Mareama, Yusefa and me into their bedroom. Lydia explained to them in French that I wanted to help them out. Mareama started crying and Yusefa looked like he was close.

With Lydia translating, I said “I want to help you with money so you can do what you want to do in life. I will help you until I die, and I will put you in my will, so you’ll receive money for a long time after I’m gone.”

Lydia told me that it was very hard for Mareama to express her emotions. She wanted to hug me but … I said that Mareama didn’t have to do or say anything. She held onto Lydia and I touched her arm for awhile. It was love. Yusefa was quite happy to hug me.

In the evening, I was saying goodbye to many of the Senegalese folks because we were leaving early Friday morning. Mareama walked towards me on the path with her arms open wide. We held each other for a few seconds. My words to her were “Je t’aime.” And I do. For the first time in my life, I can say I’m a dad … of a boy and a girl.

Mareama’s birthday is January 9. So is mine. In five days, she’ll be 20. I’ll be 70. Fifty years. Seems perfect.

Day Eighteen: La Soirée

Every year, Lydia and Jo host a New Year’s Day lunch for the twenty or so kids they support. Parents and friends come too. Lydia expected that between 30 and 40 people would show up.

My life has mostly been about small groups, about Jody and me, and about being alone. Thirty human beings together in celebration! The mind boggles.

We from the B&B arrived around 10:00 am and began blowing up balloons. Oh, those life skills that are a challenge! I knew that the arthritis in my right hand would make tying the little suckers an adventure, and I was right. But truly, so what? Once I allowed my balloons to be a little smaller than the norm, life worked just fine. Maybe that could be a koan for my life: “A little smaller is okay.”

And then the arrivals. Little girls in yellow dresses … red, blue and green too. One young boy in a dress shirt, complete with bow tie. A few in flowing robes, a typical Muslim way of dressing.

The balloons were hanging on the walls between triangular banners. Splashes of colour adorned the tablecloths, which were also sprinkled with glitter. Plus smiles were everywhere.

The local school teacher led us in a clapping game, with the kids sitting and the adults standing around the big table. He would call out a rhythm and we’d clap once, four times or ten times, except when some adult got it wrong (such as me!). If you missed, you were out. I think Baziel eventually won.

Then the children sang. I feasted on their glowing faces. Oh my. Where am I? In a very good place, I think.

Time to eat – a delicious vegetarian meal. Was this couscous? Was that cabbage? And a yummy onion sauce. The names of the foods didn’t matter. We were together. There were three big tables, and other folks ate around the coffee table. With me at table were black kids, white teens, black adults and white ones. Basically the world. How I was blessed to be in the presence of them all.

After eating, I joined a table of young Senegalese kids. We made faces at each other. We made silly sounds. I picked up some bits of glitter and rubbed them into my face. Soon many arms and faces were shining red. Balloons were punched into the air at each other. Six-year-olds, ten-year-olds, a fifty-year-old – it didn’t matter. F-U-N.

A girl at home in Belmont, Canada named Sam had given me two bags of chocolate bars for the kids. Another named Jayla had created yarn bracelets. I had the joy of distributing both, and of seeing the smiles in return, with Louisa taking photos for the girls at home to see. Making a difference from many thousands of kilometres away. Thanks, kids.

Such a large human family, spreading its wings from Belmont to Toubacouta, and infinitely beyond. Thank you, dear friends, for sharing the journey with me.

Day Sixteen Some More: Fear and Love

Lydia met an old friend of hers in the market yesterday. Nabou is married to Ja Ja and they own a restaurant in Toubacouta. We were invited there for an early afternoon drink of bissap, a pure sweetness made from the flowers we picked a few days ago. It went down just fine in the shade.

Lydia wanted us to experience another village in the afternoon, where people don’t speak French and kids don’t go to school. Unless things change, the children will not leave the walls of their compound to live. How sad. Lydia often says that she can only do so much, can only help so many people. It’s time for other people to step up … such as me.

I was on the back of Yusefa’s moto as we rolled over the dirt roads. We stopped at a grocery store to pick up some suckers for the kids we’d meet along the way. Lydia packed them in a plastic jar and we were off again.

Soon we were off-road on a sandy track across the dry land. The sand became deep in places, at least to my eyes. Yusefa clearly was confident on the moto, so much so that he was tailgating Mamadou ahead. I froze. All that basic trust went out the window as I imagined falling off the bike and recovering in a Senegalese hospital for a year or so.

At a rest stop, I asked Lydia how much farther. “What’s wrong?” she replied. And then … I lied. “I’m tired.” Lydia looked at me like she knew I was telling tales. So now the truth: “I’m scared.” Ahh, the truth works. We talked about how everyone is afraid of something. For her, it’s flying. For me, right now in general, it’s riding my bicycle. Right now in specific, it’s little mounds of sand, and Yusefa often putting his feet down to keep us upright. Yikes!

After we walked for a bit, I felt better. On the moto again, I was able once more to look around, to drink in the parched land and its goats and cows.

At the edge of one village out in the middle of nowhere, we stopped. Kids came running. Lydia pulled out the jar and was quickly surrounded. Such happy faces and full mouths.

We came to an extended family’s homes, surrounded by a fence of long vertical sticks. Cement houses and, according to Lydia, a bleak future. Many eyes met mine, and many smiles. The queen of them all was a tiny girl, all dressed up in orange and red. What a sweetie, and we spent a few moments with each other’s eyes.

Farther on, we came to the highway. Our convoy stopped for awhile, and I never did find out why. I looked across the street and saw a little girl in a pink dress gazing at me from her yard. I raised both arms high above my head … and so did she. I swept my hands to the right and she mirrored me. To the left. Arm circles. Hanging from a tree. Twisting and shouting. All repeated by the girl and soon five or six of her friends. I couldn’t read their faces from our distance but I bet everyone was smiling.

And now, next. I crossed the road and walked up to the barbed wire fence. The kids stayed back some but they were curious. And I just loved the beaming smile of my young pink friend. One of the kids threw an empty jar at me and I tossed it right back, to a flurry of giggles. Then it was an old rubber strap. I wore it around me like a necklace. More giggles. Hands came closer and fingertips touched. Two women in the background smiled.

Then it was time to go. Motos revved up. The young ones smiled at me and I returned the favour. I bowed in my best Buddhist manner and they bowed back. We waved goodbye and the asphalt took me away.

It was of the most remarkable times of my life. I was in love. Sadly, I forgot to take their picture. Lydia said we’ll go back into the area again and I hope to see the kids, this time with my phone at the ready.

Goodnight, dear ones.