My daughters were on a street that looked like any other street in San Juan. We were waiting for a tricycle to take us home. Then one stopped before us driven by a nice old man, with a rounded face and cheerful eyes. My girls and I managed to squeeze ourselves into the side car as we began to travel through the streets.
We suddenly found ourselves inside a very long tunnel but the trip was smooth and fast. Then I saw a small break in the tunnel which revealed the scene outside. I saw a storm and a lady struggling with her umbrella. I felt we were lucky to be inside that tunnel.
After the tunnel we entered a small village and turned left into a narrow street. The village looked like a squatters’ area with tiny, makeshift houses.
At the end of the street I saw a small house made of fragile wood decorated with colorful symbols and filigree art like a Muslim house of worship, all made of thin wood. The house had been torn down by the harsh storm and I felt a bit sad, not for the loss of those who worshipped there…but more for the art that had gone wasted.
We finally reached our destination, our home. It was a tiny, bright white adobe house sitting on top of a hill, away from the dreary scene of the poverty and destruction below.
In the next scene I saw myself happily and peacefully sweeping the floor of my austere home as my husband, my Master, sat nearby, writing on his book. My husband actually looked like the nice old tricycle driver --- small and plump, with the kindest, gentlest face wearing a tiny set of spectacles.
All the walls inside and outside the tiny adobe house were white. There were no decorations on the wall. The house was almost bare. The room where I was sweeping had an old crude dining table made of sturdy wooden planks where my husband sat as he wrote on his book. The windows were crude but made in perfect squares and from these, we see the blue, clear sky.
It was all so quiet and peaceful. Not a sound was heard. My husband and I did not speak a word to each other but felt each other’s peaceful company.
I felt quiet love and humble submission inside my heart. I wore a housedress made of thin white cotton that simply covered my nakedness.
Then my daughter Jessica came to ask her Father some money, and they climbed a few steps up to a bedroom. I followed to take a look. Her father opened a bedside drawer and inside was an old worn out purse filled with gold coins.
I turned my back to the sight of the money which did not interest me at all despite of the simple life we led. I also knew that my husband had a secure source of income that came from an endless source. Though my house was bare, I felt I had all I ever wanted from life…. * * *
