Touching

 

I watched a glassblower on OPB this afternoon. It is such a beautiful, dynamic art to behold in its creation. I have a fear of explosions so, when I once sat in the same room as a glassblower, the roar and heat of the ovens unnerved me a bit, but the dance and movements of the artists and molten lumps of glass were mesmerizing. One small puff of air into a rod, or one tiny clip of needle-nosed pliers made indelible changes to each creation. Although the final products were all glass, the momentary influential touch of many things (heat, movement, chemistry, tools, and layers and twists of color) made each unique.

I almost didn’t notice him. There was certainly nothing noteworthy in the little gentleman, stooped with age, who shuffled past us in tiny half-steps like the comical character created by the hilarious Tim Conway. Or, rather, we passed him, since we were moving with much greater speed and efficiency. It was, after all, a vacation we had dubbed “Lorenzo’s Fitness Tour” because of all the walking and climbing that we did to squeeze in as much art, architecture, and breathtaking views as possible. On this day, we were entering one renaissance church in a succession of several that spanned the city so that we might continue our quest to flood our senses with frescos and marble statues, columns and mosaics.

He was dressed in what looked to be his Sunday best, albeit a little worn and humble, but what caught my attention was his bent stature and struggling pace. I was smug enough to pity him and think how impossible the cobbled streets would be for many people like him and my mom. I imagined him a local who had been to morning Mass and wondered that he did not have relatives to help him. Could he not afford a taxi or bus? But then my thoughts were intercepted by the carved font and tall ceilings as we stepped through the church door into another century.

I don’t remember where we went or in what order that day, but I’ll never forget coming out of the next church we visited in another part of town. As the bright light of the clear October day assaulted us, my eyes came to rest on a familiar figure coming toward us. Here was the same gentleman; there was no mistaking his painfully slow shuffle across the geometric cobbles. With his return came a new perspective. Was this another pilgrim on a journey like our own?

Suddenly, my need to “fix” things for him, was challenged. He was teaching me something. I was the hare, he was the tortoise, but speed and ease of gait didn’t matter on a pilgrimage. As he had just proven, he would see everything we would see or at least everything that was important to him; maybe at different times and in different slants of light, but with the same level of determination.

Helping people is a good thing, a great and selfless thing, but sometimes it is the effort, the doing, that is as important as the goal and we must be careful not to take that away from each other in our haste to help. He was on his journey and I was on mine, but, in that one shared moment, like a bit of molten glass on a blower’s spinning rod, I was forever changed.