Exhilaration is the Breeze
That lifts us from
the Ground
And leaves us in another place
Whose statement is not found
Returns us not, but after time
We soberly descend
A little
newer for the term
Upon Enchanted Ground
-Emily Dickinson
It’s intolerably hot. At least, it is to me. Its so hot that my entire essence of being is sluggish. Its hard for me to believe that I’d actually forgotten how hot Damascus in July is. Was it ever really this unbearable when I was growing up? Probably it was and that’s the way it had always been. I knew nothing different so my memory doesn’t hold that information as it would something extraordinary. But now I do know.
Canadian summers are like Syria around the end of September. The temperature, even with the humidity, rarely rises above 34 degrees. The weather seems to work in cycles. One only has to tolerate the heat for three or four days at a time. Once you think that you can no longer bear the mugginess, the skies suddenly blacken. A magnificent thunderstorm rolls in, announcing its arrival with forceful booms and strikes of lightening that look as though they will split open the sky – an awe inspiring site. Once the storm moves off you can almost hear the entire region exhale a collective sigh of relief as the air behind the storm is cooler and clearer.
That sort of relief doesn’t exist here in Damascus in July. On some days as I look up at the blue skies and the searing sun, I’m reminded of the scenes from movies about the desert. The camera pans across the sands to the blazing sun and the orchestral music crescendos to a screech. This, of course, is normally followed by a scene starring a kettle of circling vultures. But I digress. Its almost as if we’re trapped on the inside of an enormous paper weight. Nary a breeze nor a rain drop can enter, only the rays of the sun.
Complaining to my fellow sufferers seems superfluous. Most of them seem less energetic than usual but no one seems to grumble much. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but let the odd grievance slip past my lips. To my surprise, they did not fall on deaf ears. Several days ago, I was whisked out the door by my gentleman friend to the shiny, leather seats of an old Mercedes convertible. After tearing, practically unyieldingly, through the narrow and busy streets of Damascus – God knows how we didn’t receive a single scratch or dent – we hit the highway. This is the point at which I released my death-like grip on the door handle and gave myself fully to the exhilaration of an open top car cruising at healthy clip.
I couldn’t help myself. As my hair swirled around me like flames fanned by a strong wind, I threw my head back and screamed with complete glee. I threw my arms in the air, catching as much wind as I possibly could, with perhaps a desire to take off in flight to the cooler skies high above the earth. I didn’t care that the highway was straight and boring, or that the wind was hot and dry. It was this feeling of utter freedom that I needed to lighten my spirit. My companion chuckled at my childlike expressions, seemingly pleased that his idea had been so successful. I am sure that he, too, felt the unencumbered joy of exhilaration.
Mariyah
abufares
