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El albergue

El albergue

Monday, October 7, 2013

To be a little three year-old

This afternoon I was starting to feel a tad bit… not depressed… rather, uncertain… yes, I think uncertain would be the correct term. Yes. This afternoon I was starting to feel a tad bit uncertain as to what exactly I am doing here in Sydney. It all started when I was organizing my monthly budget and realizing how little money I truly have. I’m not exactly broke, but with no job in my hand and no immediate promise of such, I could see my slim accounts quickly dwindling away into nothing in the fatalistic world that had popped up in my head. Enter uncertainty. Enter worries and cares.

Sigh.

I finished organizing my budget, bemoaned the dire straits I am in to my sister-in-law (thank you, pessimistic fatalism of the moment), and went on to other chores to put my brain to some practical use. Since I was planning on writing up all the adventures I’ve had with my parents during their two and half weeks’ visit, I started looking through my journal.

And here is what I found – a complete opposite to my oldy, moldy, worrying state of mind. I found an entry I had made after wandering about on a rainy day nearly a month ago, an entry that made me smile again as I read it.
Have you ever noticed how rain is completely exhilarating? A friend recently told me a story about standing on a ferry deck in a rain storm, battered about by winds and drenched to the bone by slanting torrents, and how it made her feel full to the brim of life and energy, ready for any adventure. I could tell by the light in her eyes and the delight in her voice as she retold the experience that that moment was something she remembered often and with relish. It was a spice that continually brightened the flavor of her most commonly simple days and added that extra dash of something special that made her best days even better.
As I walked through the streets of the center of Sydney yesterday, I felt a little of that spice. My walk had started a little wet, but no big deal, I had an umbrella. Besides, I felt the need to move my legs about. 
After a bit, I found myself feeling rather like a meandering column of unrain. It wasn’t that I wasn’t getting wet. On the contrary, I soon lost track of the intermittent pattering of drops on my exposed left elbow, and the increasing fervor of the rain quickened the dampening of my black jeans. I even had water seeping through my boots, which made me smile like a little three year-old as I was able to justifiably give up all attempts at adult avoidance of puddles and just plant my striding feet wherever I pleased.
 No, I felt like a column of unrain because as I peeked out from under the rim of my little red umbrella, it seemed like I was looking out through a magical lens at a different world from my own. I felt separate, like a disembodied observer, able to take note of all the tiny little details that made this different world so… different. And all those tiny details thrilled the three year-old inside me.
 The tug of the wind on my umbrella was a game. The smell of wet flowers was a delightful perfume. The water flowing across the path was a sea worthy of the most intrepid of adventurers. The splashes made by all the fat drops of rain hitting the puddled-up pavement were so many millions of bright and delicate crowns growing and falling in the blink of an eye and fit for the gayest of the fairy kings.
 I was a little child, gazing out at a dream-filled scape, thoroughly delighted.

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