Cuenca... a city of love for many reasons. Friendly greetings in the curvy orderly streets met me in the places of my soul where I adore to be met. Romance painted into the colonial architecture and fountain adorned plazas or African dance classes every Sunday in the park were all part of my world. Yet the moments that most stay within my memories and make me feel the pang of longing for that city were each evening that I went to Casa de Maria Amor where I volunteered by leading art projects for children twice a week. The house is a center for mujeres mal tratadas y sus niños, a safe-house for women and their children who had been affected by domestic violence. When I entered the dark hallway at the front, I would be swarmed by little black haired heads, the chiquitos niños y niñas whose eyes glowed widely when they asked if we were going to make art that evening, were we going to make estrellas (beaded stars) or ojos de dios (god´s eyes).
A new arrival of 6 kids and their mom came from Colombia one day. The girls were gorgeous, confident, sweet and sassy, each one a mirror of the other but in varying sizes. Viviana was the eldest and immediately became my buddy. I would never learn their full story, their reason for coming from so far away to this fairytale city of Cuenca. Unfortunately, it could only be made up of hardships if they were here in this antique house. Actually, I never heard the histories of any of the mothers as that was the domain of the therapy workshops and social workers (mostly a group of strapping, young, and compassionate women my age from a handful of European countries). I only played with the shining and sensitive children, these tiny daughters and sons who only wanted fun, beauty and love in their lives. Many of them were highly talented and mature beyond their few years. During a series of afternoons, we strung and wove beads, wound colored yarn around four directions of sticks to make a simple yet sacred patterns, and thread string into webs to catch their dreams.
Viviana was intent on learning how to make the complex loomed bead bracelets like the one on my wrist that she always admired and caressed. All on her own-resourceful-self, she obtained a rickety fruit crate, a bread knife snuck out of the kitchen, and that level of persistence exclusive to young people... materials and tools she needed to make real the image I had absent-mindedly described for her when she pestered me about what a bead loom was. We worked out a way to make this hap-trap loom for her, and off she went making straps of brilliant jewel-like bracelets for lucky wrists. Mind you that all of this had to be done in the middle of an ever chaotic buzz and wrestling of a dozen or more hankering little ones, each with an acute ability to demand your attention.
The last night I came to the house to deliver a batch of beads, string and glue, and mostly to say goodbye to this group of puppy like babies of all ages from 0-13, Viviana presented me with her latest creation, so proud and humble as she put it in front of my eyes and smiled that smile. It was a bracelet with the words, Te Quiero Mucho (I love you a lot) stitched into the design. It was only moments later after I had become distracted by something else when she let me know that it was a gift for me. Through gleeful expressions and laughter, I said half-seriously, ¨¡Voy a llorar!¨ (I´m going to cry!) That´s when she threw her cinnamon arms around my middle and really did start to sob. So then, a fountain of tears appeared pouring out of me, without control or premeditation. It was at that moment that I realized how important I had been to her and she to me. I held her and we cried while those around us fell silent. As we both tried to get to a place where we could look at each other and converse in these last short minutes, I found myself reaching from and finding something meaningful to say to her, something lasting and that worth of the genuine truth of what was occurring. Thank god for the seeds that have been planted in me over time for one of them became an automatic resource for me to use in this delicate instance. I told Viviana that she could look at the full moon whenever she needed me, that whenever there was a full moon I would also look up at it and think of her. In this way we would always be connected, we would always know that we were both there, beneath the same moon sending each other love and support. I asked her if she understood, and she really did. It still didn´t feel like enough, but it was something and it was a real intention of love. I know that what she wanted was for me to be in her life always, on a physical daily basis, touching her soft cheek encouragingly, laughing with her knowingly, telling her what I know about art and crafts, being a big sister.
But in that moment, we desperately grabbed onto all we could. And it was difficult not to just keep crying. She had all of the beads I had brought to center piled up in bags and in the little woven basket boxes I had bought for them. They were haphazardly filling up the fruit crate/bead loom, looking like the salvaged possessions of a refuge. She was obviously the new guardian of the mini-craft empire I had created in my time there. She was clearly the one who had the strongest desire to clutch onto all the treasures I had given to the group. Not because of any material value of the things, but because those things contained hope and joy and wonder. She is the most perfect person I could have passed the baton on to.
Viviana couldn´t have been older than 12. I have no idea what will happen with all of the beads I gave to the house. For all I know, she will become their official owner, making amazing pieces of jewelry for months to come. I can only wish as much to conclude my time volunteering there. Although I now that I was an uplifting and inspirational presence in many of the women´s and children´s lives there, something rare and powerful passed between this one young girl and me. Leaving that evening, I felt more inspired than ever in my life to engage meaningfully with children, to commit to be present in their lives. Viviana may well never know how profoundly she affected the trajectory of my life. And I can only guess to what degree I have touched hers or for how many years the memory of our encounter will positively influence her steps. I think that this is the nature of teaching children. Teachers give of their time, their bodies, and their hearts, and at one point must let go of their students like balloons released into the blue infinite above. We have only the trust in our souls to let us know that somewhere, somehow, our efforts continue to work their original intentions through the lives of the children we once knew.
The dandelion knows not where its seeds fly to, nor whether they will ever even take to soil, but regardless, it continues to unfurl what nature inherited it to give.
I think that this is the basis of faith.
