Thanksgiving in Mazatlan—More Than a
Word
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There is a man who sits on a low
trolley at a certain intersection roadway along the Malecon, a broad walk next
to the seawall which runs about six miles around the harbor. I suppose one might
call him a beggar. He is not homeless. I call him a dispenser of blessings, a
beamer of joy. I don’t know his age, maybe in his forties. He looks like the
Smiling Buddha sitting on his platform, useless legs twisted beneath his body.
The first time I actually “saw” him,
and I still don’t know his name, was several months ago when I was on my way to
the specialist I see for Regional Sympathetic Dystrophy, which has made walking
extremely painful the past two years. What made me catch my breath, made me really
see the man, was when he looked straight into my eyes with a look so full of
love for humanity, I could hardly breathe. My immediate thought was, I have
legs. I had been so caught up in the pain that I forgot that I have legs,
forgot that I can walk.
Sometimes I stop to shake his hand
and leave a small thanks offering, not nearly enough for what that man gives
me. Always, he looks straight into my eyes and smiles with his entire face, smiles
with his entire being. If there is a secret to living in gratitude, that man
found it and shares it daily. When I don’t stop, he waves and beams me the same
glorious smile. If I could have a brother, I want that man for a brother.
And the strange thing is that, with
a brother like him, I can’t help but look around me and see my world
differently. I can talk only about my own world, a beautiful but also
frightening place. There is no real security. Sadness and loss can happen at
any time. So can goodness and love. I could be wrong. This is what my life says
so far. I’ve learned to collect small joys.
Last Thursday Kathy’s husband
Richard flew in to join her at the resort. I returned to my little casa. I’m back
in the comfort of my ordinary routine, spiced with small trips to Cerritos,
Juarez and El Centro with my friends.
Kathy phoned, “Let’s get one of those wonderful whole grilled
chickens and celebrate US Thanksgiving at your casa.” Kathy and Richard are
from Pender Island in British Columbia. Kathy and I already celebrated Canadian
Thanksgiving. (Richard had to enjoy it vicariously, via our report of dinner at
the Marina).
The chicken, the best in Mazatlan, on the authority of
Carlos, my pulmonia driver, is grilled at a street stand near my doctor’s
office. You have to taste it to believe it—even better than southern fried
chicken when the bird is farm raised, clucking around the chicken house just
this morning. While Kathy and I will chop ingredients to make the fixings, guacamole
and salsa, Richard will walk to the Panama bakery to get a guava pie. I’ll press
the tortillas. Add fresh cucumbers, sliced tomatoes, and rice. We’ll have a
proper feast.
We three friends have known one another many years. We have
no secrets, no forbidden subjects. We trust each other. We’ll fill our
afternoon with talk and laughter and sharing troubles and thanks along with the
good food. Sharing troubles lightens the load. Sharing thanks multiplies them.
Mathematical fact. I am rich to have friends like these.
I think about the man on the trolley, my brother. How did he
learn that? How did he learn to find the joy? How did he learn to do more than
stand aside and observe the joy, to watch it pass by? Somehow, somewhere along
the way, this man who never walked, invited the joy inside. I’m not trying to
make him into something he’s not. I’ll bet he’s human, he’s real and he has his
bad days too.
Yet, in some mysterious way, just knowing he is there, despite
all the rocks in the road, beaming from his corner of the world, makes me feel
this is a good life. In fact, the smile on his face is just like the shape of
the moon tonight, smiling across the dark sky.
Happy Thanksgiving from me to you, my friend.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
November 26,
2014
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