The Canvas of Years

Waves of memories washed over me. The smell had snapped me back like a time machine to the little sink in the entry to the dining hall. Suddenly, I could hear the chaos of over 30 men, women and children awaiting their food. I could feel the heat and humidity run their clammy fingers down my spine in rivulets of sweat. I felt the raw excitement, adventure, apprehension and loneliness all over again.

All at once, I was under a bucket shower, cooking over a fire, processing sago, swimming in the ocean, dancing under the stars, wondering what life held next when life already felt so full.

I opened my eyes and twisted the sink knobs. I looked down at my dripping hands as I slowly returned to the present. The scent of soap had sent me tumbling into the past. And, oh, how much had changed since that moment at the sink; that stepping onto a plane to go away from all I’d ever known to step off again in the place I thought held all that I would become.

Memory is a funny thing. It’s almost like two painters working on the same painting. One goes first with bold, harsh colors, highlighting the hard, difficult and painful. The other comes and softens the first artist’s work, lending highlights and showing the beauty and necessity of the shadows. It’s been over four year since I first used that soap and stepped into a new phase of life. And today, just a little thing pulled my attention to the work of those two artists on the canvas of the intervening years.