From a small open doorway, light spills out onto the darkened cobbled street. It is evening; I am walking a familiar calle in Antigua, Guatemala, toward my friend's house. Salsa music pulsates through an open doorway, and mingles with the night sounds of the city, sating the surrounding air.
There is little that is subtle about Salsa music. You feel it viscerally, deep into your gut, and as it takes hold, it fashions a blend of exultation and giddiness. I am in no hurry. So I stop. And stand at the door sill of Salsa Chapina, and watch. I am an audience of one.
The light, in a room no larger than 12-feet-square, comes from bare bulbs--overhead, rudimentary and in no way nuanced. But then, this scene does not require the "correct" lighting in order to create mood or affect. I watch two young people (in their early twenties I am guessing), learning to dance Salsa. The instructor counts, 1-2-3-pause-5-6-7-pause. They (students and instructor) are unmindful (or unconcerned) about my presence.
I know this: The music massages my own weariness.
And some kind of weight is lifted from my shoulders.
On the streets of Guatemala, watching two kids learn to dance, I feel an unusual mixture of enthusiasm and infatuation and sensuality and eagerness and hope and buoyancy and trepidation, and a rare childlike bliss. It is not surprising that when I leave the door sill (the music still in the air as I continue on), my mind goes through the requisite quiz needing justification for the existence or presence of some crazy infatuation with life. Even if it is only for a moment.
I have been asked in emails and phone calls about my time here in Guatemala, "Has the trip been meaningful or beneficial?" (For those who follow my Blog or FaceBook page, you know that I have been--for this past week--at the mercy of dentists and periodontists. For those of you who do not read my Blog, I will tell you that I have been--for this past week--at the mercy of dentists and periodontists. This is the kind of rhetorical information that made me a good preacher. With very lengthy sermons.)
When asked (in the past) about whether some event or trip has been meaningful, I have made up answers, just to garner high regard or respect, I suppose. Or perhaps, I wanted to hide the truth that I didn't really know if it was meaningful and, in fact, feared the opposite. What if whatever I came here to learn, I surely missed? It's kind of odd, don't you think? The way we're always measuring our life only by the serviceable or useful benefits. (It has something to do with our need for the sum of the parts to add up.)
I am reminded of the scene from the movie, Shall We Dance? Richard Gere plays a bored or tired or stuck Estate lawyer, who "knows" his life is perfect, and yet, realizes that something is missing. In one scene, on his L-train commute, as the train is stopped at a station, he looks up to a window where a young woman (dancer and dance instructor, played by Jennifer Lopez) stands, staring off, lost in reverie. The moment is an alchemy of longing, dreams, and passion, a yearning for what has been lost or buried or hidden.
Not that we don't get it. We all get it. The truth is that it is easy to grow tired or bored or overwhelmed or to feel defeated. To some extent, we (every single one of us) juggle (or have a friend who juggles) the effects of life's untidiness, whether it is lost income, a lifeless marriage, emotional misgivings, children off-script, health strains, job uncertainty or a future colored by fear.
But why, oh why, in heaven's name, are we so eager to make life more manageable by creating a more palatable explanation? Or even worse, pretending the above doesn't exist, except in our minds, where an attitude adjustment is the simple solution.
Here's the deal: meaning comes with presence.
In other words, "Be there, when you are there."
And the really good news is that this is true for the life we give to others around us, as much as it is true for our own life.
Dr. Irvin Yalom writes, "(She) described the horrible days of her cancer's recurrence. . .She cried when she told me about calling her surgeon, a friend of twenty years, only to be informed by his nurse that there were to be no further appointments because the doctor had nothing more to offer. "What is wrong with doctors? Why don't they understand the importance of sheer presence?" she asked. "Why can't they realize that the very moment they have nothing else to offer is the moment they are most needed?" (Momma and the Meaning of Life)
I understand the temptation. Often when I write, I tend to edit before or while I am writing. Often when I garden, I critique as I plant or tend. Often in love, I play my cards very close, until I am certain (although oddly, I never really am), that I will be safe.
I am afraid to simply... be. Whatever that may be: uncertain, sad, hopeful, optimistic, lost, empty, delighted, lethargic, resentful, indebted, sanguine, at the mercy of.
Maybe that was the stab of joy I experienced, when I watched those kids dance. I found vicarious gratification watching someone fall into the moment (literally to fall into life), and to be buoyed by the power of the dance.
Of course, there is the hassle of letting go; you know, of conditions, expectations (scripts) and requisite outcomes. It means no longer linking the sentence, "That didn't turn out like I planned," with a kind of filter that prevents us from touching all of the sensory, corporeal, potent, earthy, tangible and mystifying parts of life.
I know that if I hang on to my filters (all those "shoulds"), something of life is leeched from me. "Let go of control." It's sure easy to say. It makes a perfect bumper sticker. However. It's not just about what I let go of, but what I choose to replace it with. There is, nevertheless, more to feeding and nourishing the soul than a list of to-do's and guarantees (sorry, list makers). Whether intentional or serendipitous, you can't always plan for expected results.
Yesterday, I walked by Fernando's. Fernando sells coffee, and chocolate. Very good coffee and heavenly chocolate. This automatically should qualify him for all guidebooks. And sainthood. On this day, he is making chocolate. He shows me the great burlap sacks filled with cacao beans. And the time-consuming process from there, to the bite-sized squares of bliss. Fernando's son (still a teenager) has made a ganache, and is filling truffles. I taste one (although my periodontist forbade it). I ask the young man who taught him. "Mi hermana," he tells me. He smiles as he tells me. Like watching the young people dance, in his smile, there is a window into the fullness of life.
So. Back to the question about my trip. Well. It's not the right question.
Don't get me wrong. I'm in favor of the larger questions about "meaning," and finding reasons, and explanations, and even enlightenment. But first, can it be enough to just savor forbidden chocolate? And to salsa until all the angels and saints have joined the party? Or at the very least, watch a couple kids, and let the music seep into our soul.
We try sooo hard to have answers. However. We don't always know when or how the Spirit--and the spirit of life--will cast it's light on the darkened streets of our days. We do know this for certain: when it happens, there is presence and fullness and abundance and sheer unadulterated delight.
