The Place Where Clouds Are Born

I was lightheaded. I felt giddy, merry, joyous, free. Was it the climb up the side of the mountain? Was it the altitude? Was it the invigorating air that filled my lungs?

No matter.

Hiking behind Julio and Luke on a mountain trail at 8200 feet, and way above Lake Atitlan, I felt high. My thesaurus has 32 words for beautiful. None of them describe the mountains of Santa Lucia.

Upon our arrival Friday morning, Julio hired a truck to take us to a path, about a half mile out of town, that he usually walks to. We would walk back. Very considerate of our sea-level, gringo bodies. Luke loved being able to stand-up in the back of the pick-up truck.

The path along the cliff was lush and a bit muddy. “Cuidado Cynthia!” they both called back to me. Now why would they think someone as graceful as me, would fall? Hmmmm, another mystery! (wink)

We reached the point where a waterfall flowed into the city water supply. It was covered with fresh cut flowers. An expression of gratitude to God for the gift of water from the agricultural community below.

The awareness hit me that I have never thanked God for the clean, drinkable water that flows freely to me in San Mateo. Blessed by the example of these humble farmers, I immediately said a prayer of thanks. Gracias a Dios.

It occurred to me that perhaps the economic woes of the US were exacerbated by a lack of gratitude. When you forget to count your blessings, you can never get enough.

The afternoon thunderclouds had not yet covered the view of Atitlan below. Julio pointed out the vapor beginning to rise from the hills below us.

So here it was. This was the place where clouds were born. We watched as the wisps became billows, and billows became thunderheads. Majestic.

We headed back down path toward town through the hillside farms. It is amazing that crops can grow on mountain sides. These bounties are all tended by hand. No tractors. No irrigation systems. Just back-bending, hard, loving labor. Garcias a Dios.

The next morning, Julio took us in the opposite direction, through the forrest where he gathered wood every morning at 5 am as a boy. We happened on a poor farm where a large tree was laden with apples. Julio called down to the young Mayan girl in spanish. Could we buy some apples? She did not respond.

Her mother appeared in the yard. We walked down to greet her. She spoke no spanish, only the local Mayan dialect of K’iche’. Fortunately, Julio is fluent in both. After much convincing, she picked a bushel of apples for us.

Three girls, one a toddler with downs syndrome, wandered in the yard with two small puppies. Their home had three rooms and dirt floors. Still, they looked clean and beautiful in their traditional Mayan clothes.

Julio offered the woman a fair price for the apples. She thought it too much and refused to take it. I suggested he tell her it was a gift from God, because it was. God had brought us to this lovely place on this beautiful morning. God had made the apples grow to support her family. She smiled and accepted.

In these mountains, God is obvious. The beauty, the bounty, the birth of clouds. People see him. People appreciate him. People understand him.

Perhaps that’s why I love it here. God is harder to see in a place where food comes from Costco. Those of us who do see him, are sometimes thought superstitious or naive and treated accordingly.

Experiencing the birth of clouds, I know there is a God. You can’t buy clouds at Costco.

Next blog: We meet Julio’s family. Two more after that.


Adios,
Cynthia

---

---