By Adina Pelle
“When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.
When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one…..”
With age comes the moral right to a review and analysis of life experiences, to voice an opinion and tell what really happened to us. This simple act of contemplation brings retrospection in a clear and calculated approach. While the past events gurgle in the background, all contradictory events are marked and brought up to light…
I remember one summer vacation at my grandparents’ for the first time without mom and dad, who, to my total delight, let me, chose my activities, so that I do not get bored.
All summer I looked with envy at the ripe cherries from the tree that basically grew along with me since grandpa planted it the day I was born. I could never satisfy my appetite, because most neighborhood children were always climbing the tree or banging down branches, getting most of the red, juicy delights before me.
Since I always had a fear of heights, I spent my days circling the tree, working up my courage to climb it, but in vain! Fear could not be defeated. That summer was the first time I realized how most people in desperation and to overcome all their pitfalls, found an esoteric formula to keep track of fears .That involved first overcoming the fear of words. Otherwise, why so many terms existed for most phobias: agoraphobia (fear of open spaces), claustrophobia (fear of enclosed spaces), dentophobia (this yes, is a fear that every child felt when he made the first acquaintance with the dentist!) Agyrophobia (fear of crossing the street), Aichmophobia (fear of sharp objects), gamophobia (fear of marriage, the event itself, as a participant and witness), gerontophobia (fear of old age).
Felix, a neighborhood boy either felt sorry for me or begged for attention so badly that he sprightly ascended to the top and came down as easily as a cat, filling my lap with ruby, fleshy fruits.
When I looked at the cherry tree on top of the hill, it felt huge, like a living creature with thick limbs and eyes, red eyes, hundreds of cherry eyes all staring at me as I stood there perplex, squinting in the bright noon sun with a lap full of cherries .
I never found a remedy for my fear of heights. I understood however that there was no medication for any of the fears, as there were no pills, for example, for happiness or unhappiness, depending how you looked at it.
Many quiet nights afterwards, the cherry tree seeped into my dreams and fed my imagination. Dream memories take on various paths .Trying to rediscover the mystery seemed foreseen, so I became a writer (or pretended to be one) and tried to pencil in everything in words.
Before I wrote anything, I selfishly counted my dreams and memories, leaving every listener, completely confused, staring at me, puzzled, and not knowing what to believe: no one can decipher the whole truth from my stories, as imagination and intellect clashed from time to time.