A Mother, an Island, the Desert

To my mother Sabas.

Gandhi once wrote: "Man can never be a woman's equal in the spirit of selfless service with which nature has endowed her".

Dear fellow explorers,

Pick up again your backpack and make sure you carry a double ration of water and provisions, even take a light towel to help you refresh and wash, as it's going to be warm and a long journey awaits us. Today we're going to listen to the story of Lara Maria. The trees in Gandhi's Gardens like Lara's skin because it shows a dark glowing tan that never goes away, be it winter or fall.It contains some eternal light, like that of the desert. So has the birch tree -who prefers to be called by its Spanish name, Abedul-  told the statue of Mahatma from its lowest branches. And I have asked Gandhi to retell Lara's story.

And so Gandhi grants my wish: "Lara now plays with her granddaughters in the kids' playground, right in front of me, across the path that I face. She's a happy woman in her late late fifties, happier than her wrinkles allow her to show, says Abedul, whose leaves can pick up from the air the invisible energy from human hearts: joy, anger or sorrow. Her face still contains the glow of the Sahara desert, yet the dunes she was born in are not those of Africa, but the little island of Fuerteventura. An extension of the desert in the middle of the deep blue Atlantic.

Lara used to run up and down those dunes as a kid, risking a good spanking from mother, but there were so few moments of leisure in her youth that she didn't mind the telling off. Lara had to leave school early even when she was excelling at language and humanities. She had to help in the fields and at home: sowing, watering, collecting, harvesting, carrying the grain sacks to the mill, carrying the gofio flour sacks back from the mill, herding the goats, feeding them, milking them, making cheese, learning to cook, cooking for the whole family, learning to sew and embroider, being a mother to her younger brothers and sisters. Her hands were callused and strong, yet could do the finest needle work. She almost cried when she got her first pair of glasses because she could see so much better and  begin to embroider names on pillow cases and bed covers for the family. She lived life in the decent, humble, christian manner of the island.

The only respite Lara got in many years was when she got married, at twenty three, a little bit late for the times. At last she would have her own home, and a say in the decisions about her new life. However, she got pregnant very soon, and life did not stop pushing and rushing from there. With the husband earning a living working others' fields, she was left alone to raise a family of too many. She fought with sheer work and resignation, taught the kids all the prayers and the catechism, made sure they had their best clothes on and smelled of cologne when taking them to church every Sunday, took care of a kitchen that never stopped. The husband and friends were always first at the table, then the children, then the rest of the grown-ups, then Lara Maria. The few neighbours respected her and said she was a good woman.

Through many years of hardship, Lara overcame losing her husband, saw Spain lose a dictator and gain a president, witnessed the windfall of tourism in the islands, cried when her second son went to university, the first in the family and when she got the first of many grandchildren.

Fifteen years ago, Saray, her eldest daughter, emigrated to Barcelona to find a better chance in life, and eleven years later proposed Lara to join her and help her raise the twin baby daughters she was pregnant with.

Since then, the trees in Gandhi's Gardens have been able to admire Lara's skin because it shows a dark glowing tan that never goes away, be it winter or fall. It contains some eternal light, like that of the Sahara desert. The same glow  that shines in the joyful faces of her twin granddaughters.