There are some places where it grows naturally. You drive and look up and see it. Mistletoe. You just have to stop and look at the sky. And it becomes about the light breeze that plays with your hair, about the winter air, about the small white flowers sprinkled at random around you. About the green grass under your feet, about the earth that has already became warm from the noon sun. It is about the smile. About your face smiling when you fully believe the story that is coming.

It is about how much you can become a part of this sky. How through the moments of pain you are able to fly higher. Pain heals. If you just let it heal and forget about it, you do not get closer to the magic of the stars. You cannot hear their tales. You had felt the pain in vain. You lost the opportunity to look up and to smile. When something hurts, think about the silence of the elders. Their faces are sunburned, their skin still holds the bitterness of their morning black coffee. And in the midst of the dark night, right before the dawn, the gaunt fingers of their rugged hands are knitting tightly the stories about the immense nobleness of the people of this land. If you follow their eyes they will show you the path. Barely moving their lips they will tell you that in the middle of the torment you have to raise above the clouds. Only flying high over the mountains you can see what is happening in the other land. Then you will understand.

If you listen long enough to the wind you will know where the mistletoe grows naturally. And may be it will tell you another story. This time a better one.  About the virtue and generosity of the people around you.

Barcelona, March 8th 2013