Sparks from the Fire

I have a new friend. His name is Luigi. He’s 5 years old. He’s growing up in Sao Paulo, Brazil, speaks Portuguese and not one word of English. Well, more on that later. When we were first introduced, he tried to pronounce my name and couldn’t. “Peter.” When I said it the second time he simply burst out laughing with the surprise and wonder of such a funny name. “Peter.”

On the third attempt he got it right and then laughed again in glee at the funny sound. “Peter. Peter. Peter.” He ran around in circles of joy over the humor of such a funny name saying it over and over amid gales of 5 year old guffaws.

As if Luigi isn’t a funny name…

Actually, Luigi is a wonderful name! Luigi, Luigi, Luigi! Say it again and again. An Italian name for a Brazilian boy.

But I digress…

I played with Luigi for about an hour and a half waiting for his parents to finish a meeting. He showed me his two-wheeler bicycle and his helmet which was too small for him. It was also too small for me as I tried it on amid more gales of laughter from Luigi.

When not climbing all over me he ran – up and down the patio, back and forth, for no obvious reason, just to run. Ah, the energy of youth! Then he rode his bicycle — up and down the patio, back and forth, for no obvious reason, just to ride.

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I took a long walk through Ibirapuera Park in Sao Paulo, Brazil yesterday. I’d compare its beauty and size to Central Park in Manhattan, the only two differences to me were that everybody was playing soccer instead of baseball and then, the trees.

There was one, especially, that was huge, whose roots went on above ground for 50 yards or more. The children stood fascinated and played under it and seemed drawn to its majesty, climbing its roots as if it were a favorite grandfather that they could maul and hang on to.

The tree struck me as simply patient with all these crawling little “bugs” and also a little proud to be admired so. I stood and gazed at the spectacle for several long moments and it reminded me of another old friend who was also a tree.

Many years ago, in my wild and ever-searching youth, I found myself walking alone in a dense forest in New Hampshire late one summer afternoon. The temperature was in the high 90s that day and so the shade of the woods was welcomed and perhaps about 10 degrees cooler. I came upon this tree. It wasn’t as big or famous as the Ibirapuera Park tree; it stood rather lonely perhaps among others.

Nothing in particular made it stand out except that it had several exposed roots that caught my attention. I stopped and stared for quite some time and as I was doing so, suddenly had the distinct impression that the tree might be as curious about me as I was of it.

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We came around the corner of the mountain range flying in at about 6000 feet. I pressed my forehead to the window as the pilot announced our landing. Suddenly there was Sao Paulo sprawling before me – city of red clay roofs, city of skyscrapers, city of poverty, city of joy. Here was a city like none other.

Flying into most American cities looks and feels about the same. The similarities speak to man’s tendencies to copy one another. Most of them lay out pretty much the same – some bigger, some smaller. Then there’s Rome. Now there’s Sao Paulo.

People, people, people. All of whom I do not know, have never met, will never meet – living down here in South America – a place I seldom consider. I am, once again, struck with the smallness of my life, the largess of the world around us. I have lived all these years; this place has been here all that time, yet we never knew one another. A new window opens to my life and my heart rushes in the excitement of it.

I spent the rest of the day in the hustle and bustle, the hassle and the traffic. Oh my god, the traffic — worse than L.A. Crawling across this sprawling city I am most taken with the creativity of the graffiti. Modern street art thrown up on ancient walls. Colorful, Latin, bold, fascinating. Wish I could stop and study it.  Wish I could meet the artists…

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I woke up this morning with a new family. Babies crying, five year olds running up and down the aisles, moms breast feeding, people sprawled all over the “house” in general disarray – some still sleeping, some just waking up, some already into their morning prayers, some stretching what they could where they could.

I’m on a flight from NYC to Sao Paulo, Brazil and when I went to sleep five hours ago, I was in a flying movie theater; now I wake up to this bustling family of man waking up to another day at 32,000 feet.  The sun pours through the few opened windows as we ride atop a rich layer of frothy white clouds.  There must be an ocean down there somewhere, but if it is, it’s hiding for the moment.

Last night I went to sleep among strangers; this morning we are surprisingly family. Well, after all, we did sleep together. We rode across the sky together.  Few things changed, but now we’re talking to one another – some in English, some in Portuguese – we’re playing with each other’s babies, whereas last night their crying was just a nuisance to us all.

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