I woke up before the sun. I stayed at the house of Starry Song, the shaman who had the gift of sowing the wisdom of his people through words and music, and I went to the terrace. He was sitting in a rocking chair and his eyes were fixed on the west, "the house of the eagle," as he used to say, waiting for the dawn. He poured me a cup of coffee and continued to smoke in the red stone stove of his unfailing pipe. He blew a few times and immediately took his two-faced drum to intone a heartfelt song in the native dialect which, in non-literal translation, means "The cycles of life," with which he thanks the Great Spirit for the infinite opportunities offered to each day to renew and continue on the Largo Sendero Dorado. Not long after, still ecstatic in our prayers and reflections, we were interrupted by the shaman's sister, accompanied by her youngest son, who had just entered adult life. She came to ask her brother to advise the young man, who, although very intelligent, was disinterested in the simple tasks of daily life, considering himself predestined to do something great. This also made him negligent in dealing with others because, in his view, people were not able to understand his enormous capacity and his brilliant destiny. Starry Song barely closed her eyes and shook her head slightly as a way of saying that she understood and that she was willing to take care of the request. The sister smiled in gratitude and withdrew. I wanted to know if he should also leave, but he made a gesture with his hand to make me stay. The shaman closed his eyes and remained silent. Impatient, the young man did not stop moving in the chair until he said that it was a waste of time. Starry Song looked at the nephew with sweetness and began to tell a story:

"Many winters ago, when the minks were still common in the plains, in a small and prosperous village that lived in harmony and peace, there was a discontented and disillusioned young Indian. As a child I heard stories of brave warriors that were eternalized as true legends. He dreamed from childhood to become one of them, believed that he was born to perform great feats and become a famous hero. He had learned to fight, to use weapons, to ride horses, to track and all the other skills necessary for war. The village was led by a wise and loving old man who cultivated an excellent relationship with nearby tribes, removing any possibility of conflict. This made the village prosper and everyone lived satisfied, except this young Indian who, for awaiting the climax of life and consider himself a born warrior, had no interest in anything that referred to the community life of the tribe. He thought the children were irritating and noisy, and he did not allow himself to be infected by their joy. Even if he did not say it, he felt contempt for the elderly because they no longer served for war. He did not have due consideration with all those involved in other village welfare maintenance activities, which he considered minor jobs. Even if she dressed in the clothes made by the artisans and ate the bread that was made there every day, just to cite some examples, she did not give it the deserved importance, because she considered them as mere supports for the great event of her life, the one who would cover it with glory ".

"The days passed and the war that would immortalize him in the ancestral memory of his people was not coming, a fact that made him every day more impatient and careless with everything and everyone. One morning, when he woke up, he was alone in the village. They had all left. A letter left by the old man who directed the Council of the Sages, explained that they had been warned by nearby villages about a bad and powerful man who came from afar setting fire and decimating all the tribes he encountered. From the information received that was the next village to be attacked and, according to tradition, only the best warrior could defeat it. Such a battle was to be fought hand in hand. Careful, the villagers had left all available weapons in addition to enough food for many days. The young man was glad; he sharpened the weapons, he painted himself for the combat, he drew up a strategy of struggle and he remained waiting for the aggressor. However, the enemy did not appear that day. Not in the following days. The moons alternated in the sky and the malefactor did not show his face. The young warrior began to ration the food that was coming to the end. His clothes began to get dirty. After a few more moons, he was hungry and ragged. As he could not go to the forest to pick fruits and hunt so as not to abandon the village, he went on to feed on the capture of small rodents that pervaded the perimeter of the tribe. He came to think of going to a nearby village for maintenance and clothing but if he left the village he would be remembered as weak and cowardly, not like the intrepid warrior he was. He thought about making his own bread but it was not enough for him to gather the wheat, it was necessary to clean it, turn it into flour, prepare the dough for roasting, know the temperature of the oven and the cooking time. He did not know how to do it; He never became interested in such a simple job. He hesitated to use the leather of a shop to sew some clothes, but he did not master the minor trade of cutting and sewing. The basic needs that he could not maintain, added to an endless wait, were gradually weakening him physically and bringing down the great warrior. His spirit, that one destined to the great deeds, was unbalanced and fragile by the lack of the simple, daily and insignificant little things. Exhausted, in the last few days he simply remained lying down, with all the weapons at his side, watching the entrance gate waiting for the violent invader. With the arrival of winter the cold worsened the situation even more and even the small rodents disappeared. The last animal he saw before sleeping that night was a raven, the messenger of dimensions, perched on the village totem pole. He felt an unpleasant chill on his back. "

"He was awakened the next day by the tip of a spear that touched his chest lightly; It was the call for the awaited combat. To his great surprise, the invader was a small adolescent, almost a child, who was barely twelve years old, dressed and painted for war. The warrior and guardian of the tribe smiled and found it amusing that the fearsome malefactor was no more than a boy in disguise. He had the ability to dominate the opponent with only one hand and was sure of the brevity of the fight. However, when he tried to get up he lacked the indispensable strength; the weakened body refused to obey the command of the mind. He made an immeasurable effort to stand up, as if climbing a mountain. When he succeeded, wobbly, he tried to attack. The teenager smiled, dodged slightly and the warrior's blow went to the wind. The following attempts were mere repetitions of the same scene. Tired and unbalanced by the unsuccessful attacks, the powerful warrior fell to the ground without being touched by the invader. The little thief stole, without tearing his skin, and kept the point of the spear resting on the warrior's neck. His life was in the hands of an unlikely adversary before an unthinkable and treacherous destiny. At that moment, like a lightning that illuminates the sky in a fraction of seconds, he realized the greatness of the little things, he perceived the importance of each part for the harmony of the whole. Merciful, the executioner told the warrior that he could make a last prayer. He looked up at the sky, murmured a sincere apology to the Great Spirit for having been so unfair to his entire tribe; by the cloudy vision and the wrong behavior with all those who in the simplicity of their crafts and crafts maintained the essential and beautiful functioning of life. If I had an opportunity, I would certainly do it differently and better. He felt an unknown sense of peace and closed his eyes waiting for the final blow. "

"He was surprised to hear a voice telling him that everyone deserves new and infinite opportunities, otherwise the Great Spirit would not be the purest love and His garden would not be adorned with the flowers of fullness. He thought that he had died and that he was before the gates of the Great Mystery. However, that tone was not that of a teenager or the voice was unknown. Fearful, he slowly opened his eyes and sensed that the one who stood before him was the wise old man, leader of the village. The little invader was at his side and had saved the spear. The warrior wept and confessed repentant. The old man told him that he should not feel shame or guilt. He had asked for a new opportunity and had been taken care of, now he had to act responsibly so as not to waste it again. At this moment the whole tribe entered the village and immediately began the necessary reforms and arrangements after so much time of abandonment. There was no condemnation in any way. They also began to take care of the helpless warrior. When he got better he began to study the philosophy and mythology of his people to transmit them to children. He was delighted to realize that he was learning while teaching. Since no knowledge is in vain and as he knew the art of combat and brought in this energy, he also began to exchange guard turns at night with the other sentinels on the walls of the village, to avoid the attack of wild animals. After many and many winters that warrior became one of the elder leaders of the Council of the Sages and was always remembered fondly by later generations, although he would never have fought a battle, or at least not in the way he had imagined fighting when he was young"

The shaman remained silent and lit the pipe again. The nephew said he had never heard a more idiotic story. He confessed that when the mother had taken him to talk with the uncle, he distrusted that it would be a waste of time; I was sure of that now. He asked if there was anything else to be said. Starry Song offered her a sweet smile and shook her head slightly. The young man left. Alone, I tried in the expression of the shaman the strokes of the contrariedad before the behavior of the nephew but he was totally serene. I questioned him by asking if he was upset with what had happened. The shaman denied: "A seed of wisdom, at least as I understand it, was thrown with love in your heart; sooner or later the conditions will arise for it to germinate if it is good. Time and patience are part of a process common to all things: maturity. It is the day of the maturity of the spirit, from the seed to the fruit, when again it becomes a seed. Each one at a time, with the confrontation of the battles that are his own and fair, not those he desires. "

Starry Song arched her lips in a sweet smile and commented: "Whoever does not value small things will never be ready to live the great moments of life; Being small is an indispensable step to become big. By not recognizing the importance of all people we distance ourselves from the very essence of ignoring who we really are. The waiting for the ideal moment to be full makes us lose the opportunity to live the gift and the dream; In lamenting the imperfect love offered by the world, we waste the opportunity to make it perfect in us. " He looked me in the eye and secretly whispered, "Do not expect the oceans to rise. The beauty of life is in the details, in the almost imperceptible transformations offered by the common days ".