Evoked Meditations

I have realized along the years that there is so much that I still carry but as I grow older I learn to keep everything in my heart and let go of clinging so much. In a world like ours, a cancerian like me finds their memories as the most precious thing to their heart. And so I start going back in time through my thoughts and memories… … …

I was sensitive and silent but I used to notice things and speechlessly analyze them in my head. I saw how people dealt with others and saw how actions and reactions took shape. Between me and myself, I still do! Maybe that’s why I feel evoked by certain gestures… and maybe that’s why these memories, I can never let go of. They are meaningless to the whole world, but meaningful to me… and not even I know why.

Yet, I find myself guessing that it could be because my life went through changes rather more dramatically than I could handle. Or it could simply be the habit of every Cancerian. So far, all the cancerians I’ve known have the same characteristics as mine. We all tend to remember and reflect… we all tend to cling to very simple crazes that make up this pensive attach we get. We get so emotional; no wonder we are attached strongly to music and melodies; the instruments and tunes talk to our wistful souls.

Andrea Del Boca is evocative to me. That voice which brings to mind a thousand sensations all at once, takes me back to 1999. Jerks me back to that ‘Compaq’ in our old house’s (pink house) office where I sat for hours each day listening to “Te Amo”. I mean it; I listened for hours and hours. I can no longer find this song. I used to listen to “El Amor” as well. Luckily, I still have that same record with me. But Andrea Del Boca is no where to be found each time I start searching.

Sweet Potato… The smell of hot sweet potatoes makes me close my eyes and take in the deepest breath ever. I don’t only breathe in the air or the scent, I actually breathe in a universe of memories and images into my heart. I remember the winter of 1996. I can still see Gina walking in through that glass door, walking up the stairs putting the dish on the table. I would be lying on the floor of the living room with my eyes focused on the big TV screen either watching a movie or a game show. I would then hear Gina call me to eat. Yes, it was winter… it was cold and she would soothe us with the hot sweet potato slices dipped in sugar syrup. Still, I was a child with no worries and no cares whatsoever.

The summer of 1997, I remember I wore a blue jacket and spent hours at night in the garden of our house talking to Gina, sometimes to Rebecca… My parents were mostly out. I remember they had certain issues to deal with and often came late. They would suddenly leave the house and head to my grandfather’s house because they heard something about his health or so. I can still feel and feel the breeze of those nights making my hair dance in the air carrying to us different whispers and carrying away with it our own whispers and words.

I remember, one winter, I used to like to ride the bicycle up and down the streets of our neighborhood. I was in 6th grade… maybe 5th. But anyway, it is the smell of the rain that I go back to when remembering all this.

Still, the smell of cherry wood carries my emotions towards our second house in Mirdif. The first thing I smelt as I set my first steps into the house was the scent of cherry wood. This was more than a year ago. It felt awkward leaving the pink house to move into this one. also the smell of the swimming pool filled the corridors of that house. At that time, I was missing the smell of the lemon tree mixed with the humidity of Mirdif in our first house, the pink house! I also still hear the sound of the water hose between the little basil bushes of the garden. This basil scent took over the entire house inside and out. I remember how purple this flower was. I can almost still see and hear birds that never left our roof! I miss the noisy airplanes that flew over our house every five minutes. When we were kids, my brothers and I used to play outside and each time we heard a plane approaching we would quickly guess what flag it had on it.

It attacks me when I least expect it; this feeling of missing, of longing, of reflecting and wondering of what it used to feel like, yes, this feeling of nostalgia seems to know how to get the best of me. All these things I start seeing, smelling, and hearing, seem to haunt me all over again. I either end up with a broken smile or with tears on both my cheeks. … This and there is a billion other ruminations I still haven’t spoken of. So, yes, I’m not the right person to deal with ‘change’, but still, I try.