¡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.
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.
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.
