Rain
It has been raining pretty often lately. It reminds me of an incident that happened last April, when almost everyday it rained heavily too
I was feeling such restlessness I needed a walk to anchor me back into my body. It was raining but no lightning or thunder. Topping my t shirt with a light hoodie, I stepped out
Since I was unsteady, I needed both my walking poles. As such I had no hands to hold an umbrella
The rain was not heavy, just a drizzle that was not even continuous. I enjoyed the cool weather. When I was in elementary school, rain on my way home from school was a welcome relief.
Life was particularly brutal when I was eight. I had no shoes nor books. Rain helped me handle the hot bitumen. Rain also created a cocoon where it was easier to be in my own world. I could be oblivious to everything except to what I created in my head. It shielded me from my father passing by with my sister on his bicycle. Or, if I got overwhelmed by my feelings of abandonment, it was difficult to tell if my face was covered by tears or by rain
Half way through my usual path by the lake, rain started pouring. I turned back, prepared to be soaked before I reached home. Suddenly, I sensed someone by my side. I heard his salam. He was walking with his bicycle and a huge umbrella. He probably was a Bangladeshi worker. I was surprised and nearly lost my balance. I leaned into him and poked his left shoe with my right pole. I heard his pain and apologized profusely. We walked further and I lost my balance again
I then stepped away from him and asked him to continue on his bike. “You will be very wet”, he said. I assured him I would be all right, that my home was not too far. He waited for me to change my mind but I insisted on him getting on his bike and being on his way. He offered to put me on his big back carrier but I declined. I thanked him again and he smiled so sweetly. I offered him a prayer and fervently asked Allah to bless him profusely
I took my time walking home, showering and getting dry. I told myself this was a better memory than the painful one of my father passing by on his bicycle. I may not have mattered to my father, but I seemed to matter to the sweet young man. According to Jordan Peterson, the famous Canadian clinical psychologist, we can choose memories that teach us something useful
Gabor Mate suggests doing compassionate inquiries on ourselves to find the root causes of our continuing trauma. We can change our narratives as taught by
Michael White and David Epston. Human beings are “meaning making” creatures. A coherent congruent story helps an individual feel grounded and mentally robust
We can reexamine our narratives and reconstruct new ones with less judgment and more compassion. I may not have mattered to my father but I am no longer that helpless little girl. I am an adult who matters too many. About time I love, accept and value myself
I may not want to forget my childhood memories, but I can choose new ones that compete with the old ones; so that I can create a less gloomy narrative for myself
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