The rains of now

Gandhi once wrote "I do not want to foresee the future. I am concerned with taking care of the present. God has given me no control over the moment following."

Dear fellow explorers, how has the week treated you? Last time we met, Gandhi's gardens were almost frozen by la Tramontana, the gelid winds of the northeast corner of Spain, yet there was one person who found meaning, warmth and the company of a loyal friend in these grounds. This week the trees are still asleep, but the wind has gone, leaving behind a trace of frozen silvery roads over the waves of the Mediterranean.

Like the rain washes away all the blurry memories and brings the mind to the present moment with its big, refreshing drops. 


Like the rain wishes away all the unnecessary ambitions in life and awakens the mind to the present moment with its cold, refreshing drops.



Matilde has come out of the family flat overloaded with bags, there's the black bin bag with the rubbish from yesterday, but also the blue bag with paper for recycling, and the other two, yellow and green, also for recycling plastic and glass bottles respectively. There's her own handbag with paper tissue, keys for the car, keys for the parking lot, keys for her mama's flat, keys for the office, two mobile phones, a couple of almost forgotten lipsticks and her big purse full of memories made of old kodak paper.

Gandhi speaks (frozen silvery roads)

All the trees are huddling together in this freezing week in Gandhi's gardens. The icy fingers of la Tramontana  stretch over their branches and divest them of any trembling leaves that desperately attempt to hold to the bark. The trees have stopped whispering and remain dormant.

Over the grass, in the morning, one can see small dew paths, like snail trails, frozen silvery roads. And Gandhi remains the sole figure that bows not to the wind. His tiny shoulders appear capable of carrying the world in the dawn's glow. Yet no birds come to rest on them.

A short man, with his face full of dirt has come to rest at the statue's feet, exhausted, cold, afraid. He carries numerous plastic bags inside a supermarket trolley, covered by a worn and tired blanket. A red hat distinguishes him from the grey of the pavements, and the grey of his beard's hairs, frozen silvery roads. Devoid of any energy, the man cocoons himself inside the blanket and faints into sleep.

"Listen, my good man, 

You've endeavoured to lead a good life

You left your country to search for a bigger chance

You left behind the Christmas sun

To step onto frozen silvery roads.

The gift

Gandhi once said "Love is the strongest force the world possesses, and yet it is the humblest imaginable".

Dear fellow explorers, as the new year is silently ushered  in, I have been fortunate enough to spend some days with my loved ones, my family, who I hadn't seen for 6 months. From my youngest niece who is an energetic, playful two-year-old, to my dad, still healthy at 79. I got to tell them the stories I had saved, and to listen to theirs.

I hope that you also have been able to put your backpack down, lay your walking stick on the floor, clean the dirt from your face, have a drink of cold, crystalline water and share your adventures and discoveries with your family and close friends. And listen to theirs. This need is deep within yourself, in your genes, being passed on from generation to generation across the ages.

Tell your stories. Protect them from oblivion. Tell your stories.

It is January in Gandhi's Gardens, yet unusually sunny. I can see old people walking slowly, basking in the sun, recovering from the Christmas hangover. Not a lot to look forward to. Just the slowness of the few first weeks of the year. An illusion that their lifetimes could be extended for a few weeks.