Occasionally

Sitting at a round unfinished wooden table, I wonder what type of trees are in this garden and I wonder what type of birds sits alone on the limb. When I look upward a swarm of mosquitos can be seen flying in an oval type pattern. On the sidewalk beyond the garden, various pedestrians walk by. A woman with red hair talks on her cell phone and paces back and forth, back and forth. She does something with her free hand, her left hand. A yellow sports car speeds by. Another woman carrying a large shoulder bag walks by. A man dressed in dark colors walks by with a dark backpack surgically attached to his back. The pacing woman continues talking on her cell phone, and apparently her left hand is involved in the conversation. Some of the movements of this hand are fluid, controlled as if they were visual punctuating a point. A petite blonde woman appears and two little children follow her. A white four door sedan and taxi passes by.

The city is alive with possibilities and anxieties and the occasional melodic sound of a blowing horn. In this private garden, a fountain soothes the ears while the occasional flapping wings is a pleasant surprise. Here is a moment of solitude.

The leaves on the trees gently sway as a genial breeze floats by. There are all types of mechanical sounds to isolate and decipher. People keep walking by, some holding cell phones to their heads, others just tightly focused, staring ahead. Occasionally, a pair of eyes will glance into the garden.

A pigeon decides to stroll in the garden. Soon another one appears, followed by a third one. The leaves still move softly in the wind. The pigeon flaps its wings, flies to another part of the garden. It is searching for food perhaps. It’s little legs move it quickly across the concrete stones.

Across the street is the Church of the Epiphany. I attended Mass there yesterday at 4:00 PM. The priest spoke with a thick, foreign accent. I strained to understand him. He was a happy man with a big inviting smile, full of life, full of hope, full of God’s love. This morning I attended the 9:00 AM Mass. A different priest appeared. He was a corpulent man who once had a booming voice, he spoke as if out of breath in deep tones followed by a half whisper. The varying tones were oddly pleasant to my ears. For a moment I thought that this priest should have been painted by Rembrandt or any Flemish painter. For here was a happy servant of the Lord.

I look at the tabletop and notice some faint blue scribbles, maybe crayon or magic marker. My mind tries to remember the two homilies. What returns now are not the words but how each priest brought the word of God to life. Both priests were conversational, spoke in understandable English in simple words.

As I was leaving the church, I noticed a poster for priests.