essence

A man came into the shop, yesterday.  I had met him once before.  I don’t remember what he ordered last time, but I remember that when I asked him where he was from, his face lit up.  He told me the ways he loves Morocco.  I can be shy, sometimes, to ask people about their origins.  But, I think very few things make people more glad than talking about their homes.

This time, he ordered coffee and sparkling water.  He was surprised I remembered him.  He had been very busy working on his thesis.  He is a graduate student of literature.

“What do you study?” he asked.

“I don’t study,” I said.

“Good!” he said, with marked enthusiasm.  I thought perhaps he misunderstood, and I laughed.

“You think it is good?”

“Yes!  I think it is very good!  Let’s say you love something.  Let’s say you paint or write.  Let’s say you knit.  And then you go and study it.  I think something can be lost there.  Something important.  The essence.”  His hand gestures were thick like his accent and just as welcoming.  “Maybe I am wrong, I don’t know.  But this is what I begin to believe.”  He was a little sad about that.

Was he right?  Do you think you can lose something of what you love when you make it a subject in a book?  I think he is wrong.  I think there is something beautiful in studying, learning, sharing ideas.  And at the same time, I think he is right.

We smiled at each other, and I felt I had met a friend, again.