Presence

On the other side of the mountain, a half naked baby sits contentedly on a pile of white rubble. Babbling and rummaging in the rocks. Men with shovels and axes hack away at rough terrain, building a wall flush with the mountainside. Sweating and grimacing in the dust and sunshine. Chickens flutter and scurry to get out of the way as a boy hustles down the narrow path with a string of goats.

Little boys throw a tennis ball that I gave them, last November. A soccer game is going on between small rocks for goals. Shoeless or clad in flimsy sandals, they laugh and shriek gleefully, the ground crunching beneath their feet. 

Like those plastic homes for ants, so much life is being lived, on this two-dimensional mountainside. A plane.

And I see it all. 

The mundane and the daily.

The exceptional. 

Work ethic and satisfaction. Contentment and joy.

The daily.

They are not waiting. They are living. 

Now.