There is a place where the river chooses its own course. There is a place where the water roars and another nearby where it only gurgles. There is a place where only the trees hear the waters’ call. There is a place where birds soar free and dance in rhythm with the waters’ laughter. Here horses graze in shadows, unseen by the rare passerby. Here the sun flutters through the shadows daring new colors to be formed. Giant rocks sunbathe in the rushing river and reveal holes and channels deposited only by the force of an angry current. Cranes fly overhead and land unharmed by man’s intrusion. Little bugs prance on the water’s surface. The magic of this place is felt, but the majesty cannot be grasped. This place, known as Naranjos, is unknown by most and cherished by a handful. But it is cherished nonetheless.
We sit and talk with Walter and Celinda as the sun sets. We drink maté, a drinking art that exceeds that of coffee in both depth and etiquette. We shell peanuts for hours as we talk and drink. Beautiful flowers surround us, planted in recycled “vases” of Coca-Cola bottles and old oil jugs. The vines grow up the house walls as if to shield the house from a white nakedness. I feel incredibly at home here next to the church, shelling peanuts and surrounded by life. This night answers the yearning of my heart. A home full of conversation and life, a home displaying beauty brought to life by those who dwell there, a home full of fruits and vegetables planted and picked by hand: my heart swells.
On the other side of the church is a field ready for planting in some parts, ready for reaping in others. Such is my heart tonight. Ready to learn. Ready to teach. Ready to give. Ready to receive.