“Words are everything.” Says the poet. “But are they?” I ask.
Body language speaks louder than words. When my mind isn’t free, my brain is foggy. I can’t even begin to form a thought into a sentence. Not because I don’t know how but because I have no words. I can’t find words. Time to rest my mind, soul and spirit. Listening to the rain telling stories.
I needed to nourish my mind and soul with beauty and little things like watching a sunrise with a cup of coffee, and listening to silence.
This morning the rain sounded like someone pointed the water hose full speed for five minutes, nonstop over my house. And then it stopped as if he just turned the faucet off.
I was reminded of the event last week. It was steaming hot. I prayed, “Oh please GOD send a little rain to cool this place.” A little while later it began to rain. Hours later, I remembered I asked for the rain. I whispered, “Thank you Father GOD for the rain.'”
I miss my grandfather. He made me see a land where history lives on proud tongues, spilled over, boasted, repeated and revered with full hearts through chesols and terebkul, dancing and native delicatessen like delul diokang smothered in coconut cream urging me to explore… the land where the rain washes away my fears. The land where people are effortlessly kind and giving, proud of their history. Old man chant their journey history while carving canoes, and outriggers for wars – kabekel . Telling stories of art and poetry of days long ago before they were born. It’s in this land I found home.