Looking outside the kitchen window this afternoon—can the soul be transported to another place and time through what we see and feel?
The dim grayish light of rainy days; the skies low and dampened and opened to contemplation inevitably hurling me back in time to a long gone past. I am again six or seven years old, and I’m sitting in the old bench with blistered and peeling white paint that someone has placed in the far left corner of the front porch ages ago; ages before I was born—the same old bench where, at night when fireflies and frogs begin to disclose our future by way of poetry and songs, everyone gathers, and where everyone gossip and laugh and sometimes even cry.
I am a ghost wordlessly looking at this world which lays before me, all of a sudden so utterly new, so estrange; looking at the same skies sprawled today before me; beyond my window; feeling the same dampening in my bones. The rain has eased and left behind a world that it is only gray in color; a world which bears within itself a kind of sorrow I’m secretly akin to. I’m looking at the vultures hovering at close range and cannot understand why these birds take pleasure in the world of the dead. I’m I dead? They’re not really birds, like the birds I see today against the darkening of the sky outside my office window. They’re dinosaurs of the air; disgusting to my eye. I am cold, but it is not the natural nippiness in the body on a given rainy days; it is more like a forbidding fear; an inexplicable apprehension that brings coldness to the soul and won’t let me move. It prevents me from running away.
Someone comes out of the house at that moment and say something. I cannot hear what he's saying. Or is it that I don't want to understand what he's saying? The skies are calling. I can only hear their overcast voices singing to my ears. I’m waking up to life. Waking up to feelings I cannot name, or understand. Somehow, I am a different child when it rains. Something in me, something that anchored itself meanly in the corner of my heart, releases. The chains grow like vines strangling a young tree. On days like this, the entire world seems aged and collapsed. I suppose it is. As if I needed to be blessed again by creation, by the healing of it and the beauty of it.
Why the mind does travels back in time to apparent insignificant moments in our life? Or where they really insignificant? Rain triggers unwanted memories, which makes me wince briefly and rapidly block them out. But thou, oh Lord are a perpetual shield for me, my peace and the lifter of my head. Like a ray of sunshine behind rain-laden clouds, you "satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days" (Psalms 90:14).