A Moment

There are years when the spirit of Christmas finds me in an unexpected moment. The expected ones are my family together sipping hot wine looking at the lighted Christmas tree, or in the opening notes of a familiar Christmas carol that takes me back to my own days of childhood wonder. The unexpected moments are far more elusive and thus, extra special.

The other day, my friend and I were having coffee in a trendy coffee shop in the Colonia Condesa. The Condesa is a micro city within the mammoth Mexico City. The main park is filled with trees and walking paths.  Children and dogs run in the shared space, people talk or at least smile at each other.

In the coffee shops and restaurants business deals can be overheard, people with headphones plugged into their computers studying or working, groups of friends together chatting, women in what fashion dictates as the newest look, people with model-like looks, grandmothers in sweat pants and jewels-it is an eclectic mix that works.

My friend and I were part of this mix, enjoying conversation and an artistically poured cappuccino, when we were made aware of the presence of someone else. No one barged up to our table as so often happens with people wanting to sell their trinkets or a song. This was just a quiet movement, an indication that someone was in our pocket of space and was asking for recognition.

We both looked up like bobble headed dolls, into the serene face of an indigenous woman. On the lid of a shoebox, arrayed in orderly fashion were small sheep and donkeys made out of yarn. She solemnly held them out to us. There were at least 50 enchanting creatures ranging in size from one to two inches and each unique in natural shades of browns, whites and grays. In soft accented Spanish, she told us they were handmade and would we like to buy some.

Normally my automatic response is, “No, thank you very much” and I would get back to whatever I was doing, but something about this young woman made us stop. I looked in awe at the amount of work to create these sweet creatures and alternated to gaze at the face of this woman. She was dark skinned, the color of caramel, her eyes slanted, and nose aquiline. Her raven black hair was pulled back into a braid, gold toned earrings dangled from her earlobes. I noticed that the apron she wore over her dress was almost colorless from washing, but it was clean and ironed.

She was carrying a large bundle, almost too big for her thin arms. A tiny wail escaped from the bundle. It sounded like the distress cry of a little goat but I recognized it as the cry of a very young infant. I asked how old the baby was and she indicated a month. He was carefully wrapped in layers against the cold. The top blanket was without a spot or stain, her one arm protectively cradling him, while her other arm held onto the box lid. We talked in the common language of mothers.

I wanted to know more, but also didn’t want to intrude. We did learn that she had come from Oaxaca to sell her handmade wares. I could visualize the trip she made with her just- born child on a rumbling slat-back truck, filled with other indigenous people wanting to sell their crafts in the big city. I could not imagine the hardship of that journey, nor the conditions she was living in the city all the while caring for her young baby. How did she do it and be so calm?   But then perhaps her countenance help back what she was really feeling.

My friend and I bought several of the precious donkeys and lambs and I watched as she walked away, thinking, “this is a Madonna, like Mary over 2,000 years ago.” Proud, serene doing what she needed to do. At that moment the spirit of Christmas entered my soul and the old Gaelic poem entered my mind:

“…And the lark said in her song,

Often, often, often,

Goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise.”