Promised Land
Hometown. Camajuani's Bulevard. Cuba
I was ready to write a sad story about me, but why? Why continue dueling in the sadness that comes from the past. I advised myself: one must write about something fresh and positive; one must write about something beautiful; one deserves to remember that which makes one happy.
I wonder why most of us humans have this tendency to focus on the sad part of life. It is in a way a melodramatic approach to life that does not help me or anybody else to move forward. It is not that I am embracing an escapist approach to writing and therefore living. It is more of a desire to feed my mind with memories, images and stories that can heal the sadness that the world seems to have in a surplus amount.
I am realizing that sometimes the greatest satisfaction comes from very simple pleasures one may take for granted. Son aquellas pequenas cosas … I am rediscovering a new sense of childhood that comes from the simple act of riding my bike. I pedal slowly as if wanting to elongate this moment of rediscovered emancipation. The breeze that comes with my riding on the street, by stop signs and through intersections, rejuvenates me. The aroma of wild rose gardens inundates me with new hope. I am a child again. Could it be possible to cut and paste this moment. If I go back to my happiest childhood moments, I can cut that moment when I was riding my bike in my little town in Cuba, cut the rest and paste this moment in this little town in California. I am still riding my bike, riding my new bike. Is it that what is happening?
I feel complete when inhabiting this moment. I feel as if life has given me a new chance to exist as a child. I am submerged in wheeled innocence. I am a knight, a Quixote, a Little Prince. I discover new planets in every corner. I have seen a red barn, just like the toy one I had when I was little. I have seen giant geraniums, a whole garden full of them, simple, unpretentious, untamed. I have seen amazing houses with round roof tops, Californian igloos, hippies and Quakers. I have discovered secret bike paths that take me nowhere but to a reborn sense of awe; I cut and paste again. I see eyes that look into my eyes. I see smiles that mirror mine. I see other bikes and bikers, many of them, friendly, courteous. A cashier asks: what are doing after lunch? I am going to take a nap, I said. A courier recognizes in my name un paisano mas and asks: are you Cuban? I ask myself: - Could this be the Promised Land?
My new town. Davis. California