¡Es la Época de Mangos!

¡Es la Época de Mangos!

A few weeks ago when walking up a dirt path that weaves through village homes, I heard screeching voices exclaiming, “¡Buenos dias, Molly!”  I turned to witness half-dressed Paola and Andrea sprinting with two plastic bags dangling from their open arms.  We embraced energetically, and then Andrea bubbled with, “¡Es la época de mangos!” (It’s mango season!)

Seven-year old Paola impatiently untied her bag and pushed it towards my face to suggest I try one.  Meanwhile, younger Andrea had already torn her bag open and sunk her teeth in a juicy mango.  I accepted Paola’s offer and carefully selected the plumpest mango of the bunch while she blindly shoved her tiny hand in the plastic bag indiscriminately selecting an equally delicious one.  The three of us stood in the middle of the uneven, dusty path devouring our mangos while giggling at our delicious disasters. 

There is no elegant way to consume a fresh mango.   So we dove in.   We dragged our teeth across the oblong pits that clench the sour part!  We gave way to juice dribbling from our lips and cheeks.  The juice even ran across our chin lines and drizzled on our shirts.  Andrea had not yet dressed fully so the juice was drizzling down her belly. Our hands busily struggled to wipe our faces, trying to maintain some sense of a civilized façade.  Eventually, our hands gave into the Id’s craving to dive deeper into the delicious mess.   The mango strings flossed our teeth for longer than desired.  A mango’s sweetness is perfectly delightful.

We finished our mangos and I glanced at my watch, acknowledging that I was late for class.  The girls charmingly gave me their bags of fruit and scurried back into their one-room shack to continue preparing for school. 

Throughout the day, I received bags of mangos from individuals in each of my classes and even acquaintances on the path.  I left almost every conversation with an additional bag of mangos.  Some were big, orange and ripe.  Others were small, hard and green.  Salvadorans boast that no two mangos taste exactly alike. 

There are about three weeks each year that the mangos are in season here and are everywhere.  Mango pits litter walkways.  Street dogs, chickens, goats, and people enjoy them the same.  There is just too much fruit to consume before it spoils.  Everyone was giving, giving, giving and laughed at me when I revealed that sometimes one mango costs two dollars in the United States.  I felt like a child in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.

On my boat ride back to town, I reflected on my day that began with Paola and Andrea.  I was oddly perplexed.  My arms were overflowing with delicious mangos, more than I could ever eat.  I wanted to hold on to every one of them, to hide them away and to devour them one by one, an impossible action, as they would all spoil in a couple days.  As I departed on the boat, heavy with treasures, I felt oddly alone and empty.  How could I feel alone after a day full of wonderful sharing and beautiful conversations?  My arms were full of mangos, but my heart felt empty.

Fecund emptiness is a term my friend Sister Peggy O’Neill uses when speaking to visiting delegations.  It suggests that empty feelings can bear fruit.  That it did.  Upon reflection, I noticed that I had all I ever wanted in my arms.  Each person with whom I spoke throughout the day had blessed me with uniquely delicious and valuable gifts.

The Salvadorans have taught me crucial lessons in the way they live, love, share, and overcome.   Each person here has gradually reshaped my life perspective.  As I peer at my last three months here with their fruit in my hands, I must decide what to do with it in good time.  How will I creatively regift that which I have been given, the lessons I have learned?  How will the sum of my blessed interactions bear new fruit?  After all, “¡Es la época de mangos!”

Marist, the high school I attended in Eugene recently asked me to write something for their Spring Magazine.  I'm thankful for the encouragement to reflect in a more formal way.