Gorma Tales of the Camino: Bruno Charms the Birds
Gorma sipped her coffee in the darkness, and waited. The sun was about to rise, and as she sat on the wooden bench on the front porch of the albergue, she held the warm mug in both her hands, cuddled into her warm wrap. Then she heard it – the soft but clear song of the first bird of the morning. Gorma smiled and sipped her coffee again. This was her favorite time of day, as if she and the first bird were the only ones awake in the whole world. It was a close and cozy feeling, and sounded like a brand new song every morning, a song the bird sang only for itself, a song of its own happiness.
As Gorma sat listening to the other birds joining the chorus, a most handsome and graceful man stepped out the door of the albergue and sat on the bench beside Gorma.
“Good morning, Gorma. I have brought more coffee, and fresh croissants, if you would like a little something for your breakfast,” he smiled, and his smile lit up the porch like a lovely candle. This was Bruno, who was traveling from France, “in search of beauty, only beauty,” he said, in a voice so musical it made Gorma want to sing.
“How will you know when you have found beauty?” Gorma asked between bites of flaky, chewy croissant.
“I am from París,” Bruno replied, wide-eyed. “Beauty will find me, and we will recognize each other, with joy,” he smiled again, bowing his head slightly to the right, which turned his smile to enchantment.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Gorma answered him. “Thank you for my breakfast, Bruno,” she added politely.
“Thank you for sharing this sweet morning with me,” Bruno offered in return, and as he turned back to the albergue door, all the birds burst into song together. Bruno paused for a moment, listening, then smiled his magical smile, and slipped inside to the kitchen once more.
Gorma walked all day, down many paths and roads, and saw many sights and wonders, including an inchworm slowly inching its way across a dirt path, and a hillside of wildflowers shining in the sun. At the albergue that night, she again saw Bruno, and he offered her a seat at the table.
“Oh, Gorma, Gorma, still I am in search of beauty, only beauty,” Bruno sighed, dipping his bread into the delicious soup served to all the travelers at the albergue.
“Did you see the inchworm crossing the dirt path, or the hillside of wildflowers that we passed today?” Gorma asked between spoonfuls of soup.
“An inchworm? A few flowers in the grass? Beauty, Gorma, beauty,” Bruno said, shaking his head, wide-eyed. “But I know, beauty will find me, and we will recognize each other, with joy,” Bruno smiled, and the last rays of the evening sun through the albergue windows turned his smile golden, so that everyone at the table turned and smiled, as well.
The next day, Gorma again walked many paths and roads, and saw more sights and wonders, including mist rising from the river, and tiny lizards darting up and down a warm stone wall. At the next albergue that night, she again saw Bruno, who was walking among the tall trees. He was drinking water with lemon, and offered some to Gorma.
“Oh, Gorma, Gorma, still I am in search of beauty, only beauty,” Bruno sighed, drinking the last of his icy cold lemon water, prepared by the albergue host for all the weary travelers.
“Did you see the mist rising from the river, or the tiny lizards on the stone wall we passed today?” Gorma asked between refreshing sips of bright, lemony water.
“Mist and fog? Lizards? Beauty, Gorma, beauty,” Bruno said, shaking his head, wide-eyed. “But I know, beauty will find me, and we will recognize each other, with joy,” Bruno smiled, and as he did so, the birds in the trees before them flew to Bruno, encircling his head with their wings, and singing their last songs of the day. They rose into forms of flowers, and curves of inchworms, flowing like mist along the river, and then darting away like the quickest lizards.
Gorma was amazed. “Did you see, Bruno? Did you see how you have charmed the birds? Oh, how they rise and sing for you!”
But Bruno waved his hand, as if waving away a gnat. “Birds, birds,” he said, kindly, but unimpressed. “Beauty, Gorma, beauty,” Bruno said, smiling, and again the birds sang one last chorus of their song, just for Bruno.
“Sometimes, we are so accustomed to beauty, we forget the joy we once found in recognizing it,” Gorma replied thoughtfully. Gorma knew that a shining life can often blind us to the ordinary magic swirling around us each moment. She looked up now. “Bruno, would you please have coffee with me tomorrow morning, as we did a few days ago?”
“Gorma, I would be delighted! Shall I bring pastries for some breakfast, too?” Bruno added enthusiastically.
“No, no, just a warm mug of steaming coffee, one for me, and one for you,” Gorma directed. “We will meet when all is dark, and all is quiet, just before the sun rises, out on the porch of the albergue.”
Bruno looked at Gorma wide-eyed, then softened, adding, “As you wish. Until then, dear Gorma,” and with a wink, Bruno turned and went inside to bed.
The next morning, Gorma sat on the wooden bench of the front porch of the albergue. It was still dark; the sun was about to rise. Very quietly, Bruno stepped out the door of the albergue, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. He gave one to Gorma and sat beside her. He was about to speak, but Gorma lifted her mug and nodded, and so they both sat in the quiet darkness, close and cozy, sipping their coffee.
They held their warm mugs with two hands, and cuddled into their warm wraps. And just as they were warmed and content, they heard it – the soft, clear song of the first bird of the morning. Bruno lowered his mug and listened again, to this brand new song of a brand new day, the song the bird sings only for itself, the song of its own happiness. And Bruno smiled, with joy.
Gorma walked many paths and roads that day, just she and Saint Thomas, her walking stick, quiet and smiling. She arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, the night was still and silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for the sun, and the song of beauty that is the song of each new day.
Buen Camino, Bruno.