Whenever the sunlight proved too burdensome for me to bear, I found shade in two places.
One was the abandoned playground at the back of our red-brick church. I remember meandering along the shaded, narrow path that led to it while listening to soft background music, and because the church lay nestled beneath a hill which overlooked the ocean, a pleasant breeze often brushed against my skin, carrying along with it the faint, crisp scent of sea spray. I would then sit on the concrete ledge, watching either the dog park in the distance or the quivering weeds beside my feet.
Then there was the unused choir practice room, the one behind the sanctuary, which possessed that unique charm of an ancient, medieval study. I remember the way the bright hues of our pink and white choir robes clumsily juxtaposed the antiquated air of the rest of the room. Twentysome dark oak chairs with woven terracotta seat cushions lay side by side, terraced into three rows atop a rich velvet carpet. A plume of dust would rise whenever I sat on one of them; a phenomenon which would bring me much joy. I remember the way the millions of dust particles, like dandelion fluff, floated weightlessly through the air; and though the room itself was dim, light would seep in from the rear window, diffracting brilliantly around each pappus before the whole of the dust cloud would dissipate slowly like gunpowder smoke. Nestled in the deepest crevice of the room was the Steinway piano, revealing itself only by the faint sheen of its lacquer. Despite spending much of my formative years taking piano lessons, I was never very skilled and thus rarely enjoyed playing. And yet, playing in that room never failed to bring from within me an inexplicable, unabiding, pure joy. I would play for hours on end, using only the black keys, delighting in the way their notes harmonized in every combination.
Time was suspended for me in such moments, the noise and clamour of the rest of the world reduced to that of a faint, distant note within a vast mountain valley. And I, in those small and quiet moments, became both hidden away and infinite, cradled in the stillness of spaces that were then and forever mine.
marginalia 