Life is full of Magic … perhaps one only needs to be open to it?
Everywhere has its stories, they only need to be told, the stories of Everywhere and Anywhere.
Those of you who know these places in these articles will recognize them, even if they are purely descriptive, without names.
As for the fairy tales … well, decide for yourself whether or not you wish to believe them.
Sometimes fairy tales might be true even if, perhaps, often they are not …
Here is one for you to decide on:
There where the mangoes and avocados grow, on their own, the wild bananas sprawl in the bush, and the warm Indian Ocean crashes its waves on golden sands … this is where the story begins.
To us now it was a different world then, of hot humid carefree lazy summers, and sunny crisp blue water ocean winters.
The offshore breeze in winter holds up the translucent blue waves, perfectly formed, advancing onto the beach.
In summer, the north-easter chops the sea, normally brown, as the full muddy river emptied itself, after the thunder and lightning storms.
Although, if the south-wester blew then the waves reformed and the blue ocean returned.
She was a teacher then, newly made, first year into the real world, and I was still a student, at a university upon a hill.
She loved her work, at a school not far away, on the other side of the hill.
These kids, she would say, the ones without a home, who lived in the orphanage, they break my heart, but even so I would not have it any other way.
Life is what it is, mostly beyond our control,so when the year ended it was time for us to go.
On her last day the kids cried. She knew they would, and she knew that she would too.And of course she did, but it was the last moment that stayed with her – and us – ever since.This little girl, she told me afterwards, I had been trying to reach her all year, she would not say a thing, but slowly it seemed as if she would one day allow herself to reach out too.And as I was walking away, she said, this little girl ran up to me, pressed something in my hand and ran away.It broke my heart forever, she said.
It was a little figurine doll, with brown hair,just a little doll, a little girl, a child still.
And so we left the city, and traveled across the width of a continent, to another place, where the sea is always blue, the sands are white, the rains fall in winter, and the winds blow in summer.
No mangoes or avocados grow there, no wild bananas, the summer heat is dry, and we hardly ever hear thunder or see lightning.
We took with us a little Christmas tree, well we called it that, in a pot, and on our first Christmas in this new world, we put the little doll on the tip of the tree, as the Christmas Fairy.
And the next year we did the same, and the year after that as well.
The tree grew in its pot and as we moved from house to house, and life changed, and little feet appeared we kept the tree in its pot.
Life passes by, little feet grow into bigger feet, and eventually we settled in a village, where the wind blows, like it is doing now, and the mountain soars in front of you, rising high into blue sky or wild sky.
It was a good place to finally plant the Christmas tree, and it grew and grew, even the wind could not push it over.
Of course, the Christmas Fairy could no longer go on this outside tree now, but every year it would be placed on the new indoor tree.
Every year …
And every year, as we sat down for Christmas lunch, we would all hold hands, and the teacher would bow her head, and pray for the little girl and all the little children of that orphanage.
It was/is a special moment, a sacred moment, it is a moment always, every year.
The teacher had moved on from formal teaching,and somehow or another, she and I cannot even recall exactly how, she ended up as a spiritual counselor.
One day a stranger visited her,for counseling.
At some point in the session, the counselor asked where the lady was from.
Oh, I am from a city where the mangoes and avocados grow, where the wild bananas sprawl wild in the bush, the summer heat sticks to your back, and thunder and lightning turns the summer rivers into mud.
In winter though the sea remains warm but a translucent blue, and the offshore wind holds the waves up, as they proudly show themselves off, before they crash onto the beach.
And when where you there, the counselor asked?
It was when I was alone, taken away from a home that never was, and the only home was the home where all those of us without homes called home.
But there was a moment when it felt like home, a moment that I knew was about to happen …
And the stranger went silent.
So the counselor asked, and then what happened my child?
The stranger’s eyes were wet and moist … and she said, as the moment happened it went away, and I ran after her to say goodbye, grabbed her hand, and left her with a gift so that she would always remember me.
And even though I became successful, I am still alone, and there is still a home that I am without, a home that I am looking for.
The counselor then leaned forward, and said: many years have passed since I left this same city of yours, so many have passed that a familiar face would be strange now.
Perhaps I am only a stranger, perhaps I may be a stranger who once had a familiar face.
I too ran away once, not because I wanted to, but because Life is what it is, and takes you away.
And as I ran, a child ran after me, and gave me a gift, and this gift is a treasure that I have kept with me, with my family, throughout the years.
And every Christmas this gift sits on our Christmas tree, looking down at us, as we look up at it.
We hold hands before we eat our Christmas lunch, and pray for the gift-giver, for the child that the gift-giver was/is and for all the others who were with her.
And I can see that you are with child now, my dear, even if you are alone, and if you give me your hand your unborn child too will also have my hand.
You have come home …
Copyright © 2014 G. Rigotti