The Steps That Sustain Us
HAVANA TIMES – Life is measured in steps. I came to this conclusion while swatting insects and clutching my fan during a long blackout night. I haven’t caught some mental disorder—bear with me, little by little, the statement will begin to make sense.
Some steps are short, others long; some so light they barely leave a trace, and others so heavy they scatter the stones in the path. But in the end, they all carry us along the road of our existence.
The first steps of our lives are shaky and uncertain. Our feet don’t know how to hold the body’s weight, but the will to move becomes stronger than the fear of falling. Someone smiles, claps, extends their arms, and offers words we don’t understand, we know they are meant for us, and with that certainty, we take another step.
Time passes, and steps become firm and fast. Walking is not enough. To run, to fly over the ground, to reach the ball bouncing across the grass, to catch friends, to chase dreams. There are no limits, no fatigue, when the body and hope seem inexhaustible.
There are joyful steps, and others which, when skillfully coordinated, turn into dance. Arms, hips, and legs move with the rhythm. Well, in my case, dancing turns into clumsiness—I can never make my body harmonize with the music. I only manage steps that don’t seem festive, timid, unsure, or sad.
Then there are those everyday steps that go up and down stairs, jump over potholes in the streets full of holes, dodge broken drains on the sidewalk. Tight steps when water buckets weigh too much, on asphalt scorched by the midday sun, on grass damp with dew. Steps that make us stay alert and watch the ground as much as the horizon. A constant reminder of where we live, on which island we tread.
And the searching steps, the ones that take us out under the sun with a plastic bag in hand to see what we can find. To the market, the line, the uncertain errand. The ones that return home carrying little or nothing. There, when opening the door, smaller steps run toward us, and other older, wearier ones silently ask if the bag is empty.
I carry in memory my grandmother’s steps wearing down the kitchen floor. Back and forth with a little jar from the water tank to the sink, from the charcoal stove in the patio to the inside of the house. Sometimes my short steps followed hers, asking questions, watching her daily struggle. Over time, I learned that in Cuba these routines repeat across generations—my grandmother, my mother, and now me. I hope my daughter breaks the cycle, that her steps take her away from soot and sadness.
There are the steps that leave blisters on our feet because there is no transport or money, and the journey must be made anyway. Broken shoes filled with the dust of this island that force us to walk more than we wish. Steps that taste like punishment, weighed down by uncertainty and hopelessness.
A sum of steps—that is life. Some carry us forward, allowing us to cross borders; others push us back and strand us on the same shore. Lost steps, steps that bring us closer to love or farther from what we once were. They all count; none are insignificant. Looking back, we discover that the whole path has been built by those movements.
And though sometimes strength runs out, we must keep going—one after another, right, left. As long as we keep moving forward, life will go on beating beneath our feet. And perhaps the question is not where we arrive, but the steps we took to get there.