«De repente, me pongo a correr, como si la mochila no me pesara. Y le voy diciendo adiós a cada roble, adiós a cada hórreo y a cada flecha amarilla. Y canto, otra vez canto, aquel tema de Medina Azahara que tanto le gusta a mi padre: "Necesito respirar, descubrir el aire fresco y decir cada mañana que soy libre como el viento." Porque ese verde, efectivamente, no es de supervivencia. Porque nada es de supervivencia aquí, todo nos trasciende. Y porque de repente me parece como si me estuvieran saliendo alas, la mochila se redujo, dejé de pesar, el cielo está lleno de nubes grises que me llaman. Y me pongo a llorar, libre de toda esperanza. Libre de planes, de añoranzas, de vergüenza y dudas; todos los muros caídos, el bosque adentrándose en mi ciudadela. Atravesada por el camino, dejo un instante de ser yo para ser él. Una curva que rodea una finca protegida por piedras, una cuesta abajo, una vaca, una cacera con agua, ese nogal generoso, una piedra. Me siento desaparecer, de pronto, porque no siento que corro. Y simplemente lloro. Me vuelvo ese llanto, tan purificador. Un llanto lleno de amor, igualito que el rocío, que lo entrelaza todo, hace líquidas las fronteras que separan a las cosas.»

Suddenly, I start running, as if the backpack didn't weigh me down. And I'm saying goodbye to each oak tree, goodbye to each granary and each yellow arrow. And I sing, again I sing, that song by Medina Azahara that my father likes so much: "I need to breathe, discover fresh air and say every morning that I am free as the wind." Because that green, indeed, is not survival. Because nothing is survival here, everything transcends us. And because suddenly it seems to me as if wings are coming out, the backpack was reduced, I stopped weighing, the sky is full of gray clouds that call to me. And I start to cry, free of all hope. Free from plans, longings, shame and doubts; all the fallen walls, the forest entering my citadel. Crossed by the road, I stop being me for a moment to be him. A curve that surrounds a farm protected by stones, a downhill one, a cow, a hunt with water, that generous walnut tree, a stone. I feel myself disappear, suddenly, because I don't feel like I'm running. And I just cry. I become that cry, so purifying. A cry full of love, just like the dew, that intertwines everything, makes liquid the borders that separate things.
About the Author: Pablo d'Ors is a Spanish priest and theologist. He is the founder of the Amigos del Desierto Foundation, which aims to foster contemplation and interiority in Christian life. His books include El olvido de sí, Biografía del silencio, and Sendino se muere.