And I came upon an old man sitting beneath a fig tree, savoring the juice of its fruit.
With a nod and a smile, he invited me to join him. As I drew closer, I noticed his sparkling eyes. With each bite he took, they seemed to come alive a little more. Juice ran freely through his fingers, across his palms, and onto his cloak, as though the mess itself were part of his delight.
I felt as though I were standing before a young child somehow housed inside an old man’s body.
As if he had read my thoughts, he offered me a piece of fruit and said, “Talk to me about your dreams.”
I took a bite and looked at him, smiling. Then another bite. And another.
He smiled back, and without another word, we simply sat there eating until we couldn’t eat anymore, laughing like two children who had forgotten time.
After a while, he rose and silently motioned for me to follow him to a nearby creek. Fresh water ran freely, polishing the stones as it passed. We washed our hands and faces and sat at the edge, listening to the quiet music of nature.
Time stretched and folded in on itself, feeling both long and fleeting.
Then he leaned down, picked up a small heart-shaped stone, and placed it in my hand.
“As long as your dreams take the shape of your heart,” he said softly, “they will always find their way. Go — and never stop believing.”