The decision to travel is made. My life in Toronto is okay but as I pack my suitcase I think it could be better. I feel there is something missing in my life. What that something is I have no idea. I pack carefully knowing I will be returning with an empty case. Maria and I are the same age but is she smaller than me? Bigger than me? Shorter? Taller? I decide to pack more tops than bottoms. With short sleeved tops height is a more minor issue. And besides, I remind myself, with Maria's seven daughters surely whatever I pack will fit someone.
My suitcase is packed and waiting on the floor beside my apartment door. "Beep, beep!" The taxi is here. A quick last minute appraisal reveals stove off; taps off; lights off; drapes and blinds pulled; the apartment is safe to be left for the three weeks I plan to be away.
"To the airport please," I tell the driver. It's early morning and as we speed along the busy 401 I consider my decision to travel to Puno, Peru. I can still hear the concern in my daughters' voices. "You know Peru is a dangerous country at this time. Why are you doing this?" they asked. And as we near the airport I acknowledge the correctness of their statement. The Sendero Luminosa terrorists have made life in Peru dangerous enough to send World Vision workers back to wherever they came from. If that were not the case I would not be on my way to the airport.
The driver parks. I pay the meter's tab and as I step from the taxi I silently, fearfully repeat the question, "Why am I doing this?" The mother in me answers, "You are going on this journey to meet your obligations."
In the airport washroom I stare into the mirror but I'm blind to the Martyr's Madness; the Saviour Syndrome; the Righteous Rescuer; the big-time caretaker. Oh, yes, I know all the labels and I know they are all a good fit but I prefer to wear denial in comfort. At times like this I wish I were a florist instead of a psychotherapist. "Physician, heal thyself." Sometimes it is easier to avoid mirrors.
The journey is over. I am checking into the hotel in the City of Puno, Peru. Sendero Luminosa have cut the power lines. The elevators can't operate and the mountainous altitude makes climbing the three flights of stairs very difficult. My legs are dead weight. My head swims in dizziness. I crave sleep but it's time to meet Maria and her family.
I stand on the unpaved narrow road facing the outer gray concrete wall that blocks Maria's house from my view. Just like the photo that finally led me to this place I see scrawled on the wall in red paint the words, "Se-Vende Kerosene." Below the red scrawl in black paint is the number 235.
There is a gate in the wall. Carrying my suitcase I open the gate and find myself standing in an open, barren courtyard. It is swept clean, a dusty floor, no grass or evident colour to brighten the space. In the far corner I see one lonely wooden straight-backed chair and beside the chair, a stone water well with a brown bucket on a rope hanging over the side.
Maria is there to welcome me. For the first time I see this small woman, no taller than my 5'2. Her Quechua heritage is obvious in her deep dark eyes, graying black hair tightly tied back in a tidy bun. I've never chosen to wear a lot of make-up or cosmetics but on this day I feel like the original painted lady as I stand face to face with my new acquaintance. Her face is more wrinkled and worn than that of the average Canadian woman. She appears older than her 50 years. Her warm, weary eyes say my home is your home. Her lips have never felt the soft smoothness of lipstick. Her smile reveals several gaps where once teeth resided.
Maria's arms are open and I feel myself walking into the warmth of her welcoming embrace. A single mom of seven daughters, Maria is well acquainted with suffering, struggle and disappointment.
She invites me into her home. I am impressed by the neatness, the cleanliness. The house consists of two rooms. The one I am standing in has several chairs lined against one wall and over these chairs is a gray army blanket doing its best to convert the chairs into a sofa. In the centre of the room is a wooden table. There are no other furnishings but the seven bright smiles belonging to Maria's daughter, Yeny and Yeny's six older sisters brighten an otherwise dim, dismal room.
Yeny is 10 years old. The sisters are stair steps leading up to the oldest girl, Vilma, who is 19 years old. I pass my suitcase to Vilma indicating to her that I would like her to open it. She does so and the family members are very happy to receive the gift of women's clothing. I note that Maria and I are about the same size and I feel good knowing what I have brought along will probably fit her.
I remove my jacket and Yeny carries it across the room. She hangs it on a nail protruding from the room's otherwise bare stone wall.
The girls close the lid and carry the suitcase into the other room of the house. Through the open doorway I can see them all lifting articles out of the suitcase, smiling, laughing as they try on the garments.
My focus is brought back to Maria as she quietly reaches out and touches my arm, inviting me to sit on the make-shift sofa. Maria and I smile at each other. She talks to me and I regret that I have no understanding of Spanish. Maria speaks no English. Somehow two mothers communicate.
In a short time Maria excuses herself and goes out of the house. I later learn that behind the house there is another small stucco building housing a grate over an open fire. This is the kitchen where Maria prepares the food for our lunch.
On her return Maria asks me to get up from the sofa. She removes the old gray army blanket from the row of mismatched chairs. With one deft movement Maria flings the blanket into the air. It falls gently and neatly on to the table. She once again leaves the room. The children are suddenly busy laying plates and cutlery on to the table cloth.
Other girls are occupied moving the chairs from against the wall to circle the table. Lunch is ready.
Maria returns carrying a hot steaming cauldron of a delicious fragrant stew. I'm encouraged to sit at the table on a chair beside Yeny. Vilma assists her mother in serving myself and her family members who are gathered around the dinner table. There is much happy chatter. I wish I had better understanding of what is being said but somehow this is of minor important. What impresses me is the love, the smiles on the little girl faces. My eyes see poverty but my heart feels prosperity.
Dinner is over. The girls quickly clear the table of dishes. I am invited to join them in their trip to the market. It is time to go. Yeny brings me my jacket and I prepare to leave the house with everyone. My eyes are drawn to Maria as she removes the old, gray army blanket from the table. Wrapping it around her shoulders she is ready to walk into town.
I hold Yeny's hand as we walk along the dusty road toward the market place. Maria walks proudly ahead of me with Vilma and her other lovely daughters. The army blanket has served multiple purpose this day. My eyes focus on Maria's old, gray shawl and suddenly I feel shallow. I feel arrogant. I feel ashamed because when I left my little Toronto apartment ego had me convinced I was indispensable. I imagined I was Super Mom; the glue that would hold this family together.
As we walk along the narrow dirt road I realize that somehow the tables have turned. The rescuer has been rescued. The caretaker feels cared for and comforted. I feel an almost overwhelming sense of belonging as we continue our walk to the market place.
"Why are you doing this?" my daughters had asked. I think I am beginning to understand my hidden motivation.
The chill mountain air causes Yeny to shiver. I take off my jacket and slip it over her small shoulders. Her loving smile is my reward. I feel cold without my jacket but I don't want it back. Instead I yearn to wrap myself in the old gray army blanket; to be able to accept life as Maria is graciously accepting; to learn to experience inner peace as she does knowing the journey is what matters; not the destination. Meeting Maria is a life-changing experience.
Upon my return to Toronto my ordinary apartment now looks luxurious to me. Materially I lack nothing. And now, thanks to Maria, the unrecognized spiritual emptiness that I had attempted to fill with rescuing, caretaking activity is empty no longer. It is now a warm place close to my heart wrapped in memory of an old, gray army blanket.
