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as exquisite as possible, lovingly made with the i nest materials available: silk
and the woman's own hair. I could trace her laborious progress through the
line of cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went by, the hair
of the angels (like the hair of the devout artist) turned from dark brown
to white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work
was worthwhile and would be appreciated—as it is, two centuries later, by
a steady parade of travelers from distant lands.
I've been at my work for over 25 years now. I also have a faith that it
(my work, if not my hair) will be appreciated. h at's perhaps less humble
than the woman was, but her work reassured me that we live on through our
deeds. Her devotion to her creation (as well as to her creator) is an inspira-
tion to do both good and lasting work. While traveling, I'm often struck by
how people give meaning to life by producing and contributing.
I didn't take a photograph of the embroidery. For some reason, I
didn't even take notes. At the moment, I didn't realize I was experiencing
the highlight of my day. h e impression of the woman's tenderly created
embroidery needed—like a good red wine—time to breathe. h at was a
lesson for me. I was already mentally on to the next thing. When the power
of the impression opened up, it was rich and full-bodied...but I was long
gone. If travel is going to have the impact on you that it should, you have to
climb into those little dinghies and reach for those experiences—the best
ones won't come to you. And you have to let them breathe.
Back in town, I had a
bela kava
(“white cof ee,” as a latte is called here)
and watched kids coming home from school. Two older girls walked by
happily spinning the same kind of batons my sisters spun when I was a
tyke. And then a sweet younger girl walked by all alone—lost in thought,
carrying a tattered violin case.
Even in a country without its own currency, in a land where humble
is everything's middle name, parents can i nd an old violin and manage to
give their little girls grace and culture. Letting that impression breathe, it
made me happier than I imagined it would.
Traveling in war-torn former Yugoslavia, I see how little triumphs
can be big ones. I see hardscrabble nations with big aspirations. And I see
the value of history in understanding our travels, and the value of travel in
understanding our history.
