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Friday, March 25, 2011

Ethereal Memories

Today is one of those days when the weather can't decide if it's winter or spring.  Heavy, gray clouds rolled through, as the sun rose somewhere else this morning, opening up intermittently to shower the bright green hills with a light, misty rain.  In the last hour, however, the lights in our home have been alternating on again and off again as the peek-a-boo sun tries to make a stand against the steely, billowy giants.  The delicate, white flowers scattered over our backyard hill of verdant succulents have bravely sprawled their petals wide to welcome what little warmth and light they can absorb from the sun.  They are stalwart though they shiver and tremble against the blustery wind.

The boys are in the living room building with the Marbulous construction set.  The baby is asleep.  And here I sit in front of the friendly computer, effectively avoiding thinking about all I have to do to prepare for our upcoming trip to Utah.  Instead of being responsible, I rest and wax poetic about the weather, feeling contemplative about life in general.

{Image courtesy of AllPosters.com}

Have you ever longed for a place you can barely remember?  I do.  Frequently.  For me, that place is the Sea of Galilee.  I can vaguely recall the stillness and reverence of a morning on the shores of that historic lake.  I was a child when last I knew that place and as I think back to our family retreats there, I feel them more than I remember them; like looking at a memory through mist and fog and heart, not mind.  I reach out and tenderly gather pieces from here and there, hungrily trying to fit together a puzzle, the completion of which promises peace and fulfillment: gentle waters lapping hypnotically at the mildly-sloping shore; soft bat wings fluttering between heavy-laden date palms; light, downy grass leading to a splendid, pebbly shoreline; distant, muffled splashes of delighted, frolicking children.  The mornings I can remember at the Sea of Galilee were hazy and muted, the cool air heavy with moisture.  It was a richly inspiring environment, ripe for contemplation and philosophizing, subdued, hushed, insulated.  It must have been so, else my sub-10-year-old mind would not have walked away from its experiences there carrying these impressions through life, nay, clinging to these impressions through life.  Sometimes, if I rise before the sun and greet the day without the walls of my home, I can sense the Sea of Galilee right here in San Diego.  I breathe deeply, look closely, listen carefully, and feel fiercely, with my whole body and mind, and suddenly, there it is - the same moist air, the same reverence and stillness of a morning uninterrupted by the sounds of civilization, the same smell of brilliantly purified oxygen and dewy greens - and my soul heaves a sigh of relief and ardently expresses gratitude to my mental faculties for their dogged retention of this most special of memories.

And now that I have finally finished this post (despite frequent interruptions for diaper changes, snack breaks, meal times, bath time, and laundry duty), the sun has won the battle for the sky and the flowers are fluttering happily in the breeze.  The day is drawing to a close and I am, at last, feeling motivated.  I think I'll go prepare curried lentils and rice for dinner and make my house at least smell like the Middle East.  Oh what I wouldn't give for some Baklava right now.

1 comment:

Sara said...

Thanks a lot! I always miss that too, and you made me nostalgic...great thoughts.