The Man Who Whistles

Reading the title in the context of the experiences of a woman in Central America, one might expect this to be an entry full of negativity, lamenting over the objectification of women.

This is not that entry.

Rather, this is an entry about the man who sweeps the plaza and streets every single morning in the town of Suchitoto; or, as I like to call him, "the man who whistles." I love to begin my morning listening to the tuneful songs he whistles, walking through the plaza on my way to Centro Arte para la Paz. Each song is accompanied by the rhythmic swish of the tied reeds against the cobblestones; he always sweeps in time to his song. Most days, the plaza already has people out and about by the time I cross it, so the beautiful tune is sometimes lost in the sounds of the odd car driving by, the shouted salutations, and the general hubbub of everyday life. But sometimes, it is only me and the man who whistles, his beautiful song filling the silent air, floating across the way to descend upon the ears of a grateful listener. With the morning sun at my back, I often stop for a few moments to enjoy the joy this man unconsciously gives me.

Once, a few months ago during the weekly spirituality night the volunteers have, we were asked to fill a page with what we believe. Amidst a flurry of words, I wrote one sentence in the upper right hand corner that comes back to me whenever I pass through the plaza - "I believe that mundane, everyday actions can create great moments of grace." Though I very much doubt he is aware of it, this man creates a moment of grace for me every single morning - a moment of quiet filled with the strains of his song that accompanies his work.

So here is in thanksgiving for all those mundane moments that turn to moments of grace; especially for my man who sweeps Suchitoto's streets, the man who whistles.