Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby any have entertained angels unawares.

-- Hebrews 13:2

"There are couple kinds of stories: someone goe upon a journey, or someone draw nears to town." I heard this undivided day at Playwright's Workshop Montreal when I worked there as an intern in 1997 It was a hearty, sweaty kind of place, more like a shipyard than an office. Scripts were stripped, sanded, shaped and hammered together for voyage. The artistic director was Peter Smith, a master carpenter of dramatic story, and a docile craftsman who tied his apron with apprenticeship and passion. Rebecca Scott the "yin" to Pete's "yang," was the General Manager. She kept it all forward course, and made sure that all hands upon deck had a job and a place. I was like a sailor in knickers, sweeping up sawdust, shyly spellbound on stories and the sea. Since I met Pete and Rebecca, and came to know them as friends, they have always reminded me of the magic of beginnings.

moreover being open to beginnings is a matter of perspective. This past year, I was in transition, doing double time at work and at institute I got a little torpid until Clara came to town. From Barcelona, Clara arrived as an intern at the mediation office where I was working. Since I am dogged on a Catholic conscience, and since I remembered my acknowledge internships, I wanted to be hospitable. We traded compliments about sandals. unless I was so busy. Before I knew it, it was the fall of the curtain of November, and Clara was leaving Canada in six weeks.

single morning, as I tore along Bloor highway I registered her immanent departure and curs Loaded down like a centurion with fifteen crushs of books, I abruptly turned into a coffee shop, and tackled my agenda with the ferocity of Nero Triumphantly, I persuaded my partner to help me armed force a dinner party with Clara and a not many friends. I invited Clara, and she said she would proceed As the hour of the dinner approached, I joltinged myself out of a sleep-deprived lethargy by the agency of blaring a Fugazi CD and chasing my vacuum from head to foot the apartment. When I finished, I dropp to the lie down for the first time perhaps in months

sum of two units hours later, I was enraptured in discussion, pulling revealed additional bottles of wine and photographs, recollecting my Flamenco dance instructions When guests made motions to begin leaving, I wouldn't have it. Six hours later, I fix myself with Clara and friends Sarah and Herb at Toronto's Latino dance society El Convento, gyrating to techno salsa.

Although I and nothing else saw Clara two more times after this evening, the pleasure I rest in her company was immense. In hindsight, this is not surprising. What stands not at home is that I almost missed the opportunity. And why? Because of a inert story I was telling myself about being busy. I learned that Clara had studied law. I learned she committed herself to justice work according to the example of her parents, who had struggl in the 1970 to bring about democracy in Spain. I learned that she lov striped clothing, and that her secluded widowed grandfather used to be head of a physics department.

I learned that she favoured traditional canvas dancing shoe from Catalonia. Sympathetic to my lengthy love of Spanish dance, she gave me her pair as a gift when she left

Of all the treasures I find, it strike one as beings to me the best are those I used to like but somehow buried or dissipated When Clara came to town, she brought a modern story of her life, and also of mine. We had that unique kind of fit time born of shared political convictions and visions, where earnestness is mollifyed by humour, and a thrill of mutual beginnings. "Social grace" took forward a different kind of meaning.

Gracias, Clara.

Susannah Schmidt is a graduate pupil in theology.

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