The stolen time

The stolen time

Written in: Jan 02, 2015

1920575_416265608528893_3351769198065623321_nBy Amaya Álvarez.

As I said in my previous post, reaching Australia was a bit of an odyssey in which it seemed that we lived in an airport. Two consecutive cancellations of our flights, had the consequence that our visit to Australia lasted just over 24 hours.

Too little for a place with so much to offer.

We arrived a little late for the first Mass in the Parish of Varroville. So just past immigration and collect our luggage, we started heading directly doing there. We could only see the highway on the way, but it's funny how even seeing very little can intuit that Sydney is a friendly and easy city.

Varroville, is about 30 minutes from Sydney but it is a very quiet area, low houses and huge expanses of green land in very beautiful slopes, in which, is the field of Carmelite friars. Down at the foot of the mountain, is the parish, close ascending a little school Carmelita, after the retreat center and, crowning the hill, the monastery of Carmelite nuns.

But I don’t want to come ahead of time.

We were at the airport, with that sense of urgency retardation and makes us all precipitásemos. Even us quickly and we spoke briefly. That we looked at the clock repeatedly. Still was in the air the tension experienced in different windows, of different airlines, of individual airports. A little more impatient than usual did the immigration queue, that made us longer than usual. Cheerfully, but I like to hurry bone stuck.

After the van all the questions were about how far we were, as was the traffic, who expected us, if you arrive on time ... etc.

And finally, arrived, and was unloaded from the van and relax completely.

The place conveys an absolute peace. Suddenly everything fell under its own weight, we're here and this place is wonderful. The green expanse with ponds and cows grazing peacefully, small groups of trees here and there, people waiting for us, many young smiling. Varroville brought us back to serenity in seconds.

Too bad that the visit was so short, really I stayed with the feeling that we needed more time to really be aware of what you can bring this place. But at least we had the opportunity to share some moments and everything is very close Varroville, distances are easily save even walking, we visited mothers, in a beautiful pilgrimage that ran the Carmelites land. Up there everything was neatly care, but if something struck me, were the spectacular views of the valley and away from Sydney, and flowers. Endless flowers of all sizes and colors. And there's a special thing common to all monasteries have been fortunate to know and this is the harmony, really the place you pause conveys the feeling and intimacy that is very difficult to achieve elsewhere. And I come to mind several conversations with nuns in which I explained that his absence was always present, away from the noise and distractions but not isolated, on the contrary. There in Varroville, I remembered words are. It is a place where you find the silence necessary, but you stay in touch. I do not know if I can explain.

But our 24 gave a lot more of themselves. Our hosts, had prepared a route for the day before that we did not, They would not allow us we should go up without seeing a bit of the city, so they took us to see the most significant places in Sydney, Thanks Greg.

I fear that this blog, contains less experiences, and we could only taste a tiny appetizer of Carmel in Australia. E intuit a particular society. I'm feeling a little empty, of missing time, but not to do more, I'm not getting properly explain. Simply ran out of time, to share more songs or anecdotes, to get to know a little more to our hosts. To finish forging the complicity that started. Anyway, thank you for respect, the care and attention to us.

It impressed me from Australia that it has a very clear Anglo-Saxon influence, city ​​distribution, what cars, homes, I found all known and familiar, nevertheless, physically, Australians are different, and the average are soaring, with very blue eyes, brown hair, nothing very surprising, but something sets them, is as if the land mark them. They could be perfectly Americans, but they are not, or English, and although many Irish descent presume this, but not. They are clear and authentically Australian, as hardiest, yet kinder. As if the elements of a difficult nature of work had gone into their DNA. Also a sense of justice, nobility.

I think this is a place where land mark people. So it seems. As if many more years of history than it is appropriate ran in their veins.

Unafraid to repeat, since it is the pervasive sense as I write these words, I say goodbye to Sydney feeling that we will soon, but enormously grateful.

See you next time, Australia!