My most vivid memory would likely be when I was two or three years old. Waking up on a bright afternoon in a familiar bedroom that I instinctively knew, but truthfully I did not. It was a bedroom that held two beds for two sisters. Even though I hadn’t truly identified them as my sisters—or for that matter recalled anyone else sleeping in that room. All I could remember of that memory was that my mind was completely blank. Stepping out and walking through the hardwood floor living room, that moment was like stepping into a trance. One could say the feeling is similar to that of stepping into Zen. You completely forget all other desires and live the moment without living the moment. You’re at peace with everything—even the silence which would be deafening in such a place was peaceful.
Walking through a doorway, not remembering how I opened that thick hardwood door that usually locked on you if closed completely, I stepped into the front porch. I recall clearly that perfect feeling of stepping into Nirvana. For only that moment I had reached such a level, had felt it and breathed it and lived it. As I stared up into the windows of our front door in the inside porch of the duplex we lived in, I felt the beams of the white-golden sunlight bathe me with its tremendous warmth. It wasn’t its warmth against my still baby-smooth skin, nor was it the brightness that flashed into my eyes. It was simply the feelings that shone straight through the physique of my childish body, through my eyes, and pass my skin, it reached inside. Inside, this light reached and touched my innocent soul and made my heart realize.
Unexpectedly it’s only a memory I recall, never knowing if I truly lived it or if it was a simple dream I wished real. Well, that memory was years ago, what’s there to cling onto? Probably the fact that after that memory there was never once a time I felt the same as in that memory. I’ve wondered countless time and tried approaching the question. For a six-year-old kid to already question such things was bizarre. I never thought it would be weird to contemplate at that age “why am I living, am I supposed to do something” or “what was I like before I was born”? Questions that eventually made me ask too much out loud. A family of eleven children would cause siblings to band with one another against one another. For some reason it had to be the Loud-Mouth me who was not only the youngest but the one who talked and asked too many stupid questions—I ended up the sacrificial lamb for their sibling clicks to prey on at many times.
With such a talkative personality as mine I was turbulently told that there was no need to ask questions to every little thing, and that answers would come naturally on their own regardless if I asked or not. Henceforth to that day I had never spoke a questioning inquiry towards my siblings, holding back the urge to speak to them at all. Being told such things I decided “if I ask questions they’ll yell at me again. I’ll just play by myself”. Of course that’s more of an excuse for my hermit like behavior. Though since young and to this day I am still known for my loud mouth, but I was never known for asking questions that was uncanny of a youngster.
Even now I wonder to myself, attempting to change myself from when I was younger: Is there ever a time where I’ll be like that again? I have explained that warm transparent light as something that pulled me into a Nirvana-like state, but still I question—“what is Nirvana like?” There are many experts who could probably explain it, who have studied the subject of Buddhism or of Nirvana itself. There may be people who have actually stepped into that place void of worldly desires. Yet I believe what they have experienced, or what they have studied, is completely different from what I had experienced. Why is that? And why is it that I can’t seem to return to that place that I remembered. Was it really a dream? Or was it something else? I truly wonder. I have always truly wondered.
My memories flashed back into my mind, and I zoned back into real life. I’m in my Honors History class, and yes, it is boring. I’ve tried to get out of there but to my own dismay anything I’ve tried doesn’t work. Even crying and begging Mr. Peck.
“I feel old,” I whispered in my boredom. History always makes me feel old. I slumped against the long table I sat in. Three girls on my left, three boys on my right—ever since I was in school I’ve always realized I sat in the intersection between boys and girls. Don’t take it the wrong way I am a girl, I admit that. No, I am not a transgender or a bisexual or whatever you can come up with. I’m normal and I know it, because I have a boy that I really like. The point is, I’ve always been able to lean towards the guys more than the girls.
I mean, come on, girls are always gossiping and they always think about their looks, their makeup, guys, and that was all. In Honors even if you were smart, and you did your homework, it wasn’t like I’ve actually met a nerd of a girl before. Not the mention any guys, either. Appearances show up big in the female society, and I’m one of the few outliers in my school. I talked with boys, I hung out with them, I wasn’t afraid of them, and I had no sexual desire for them. That’s just how I run.
Well, it isn’t like guys are any better. I mean, the reason I’m more immature than ever is because I always end up hanging out with the moronic kind. I’m talking, “if it’s edible it’ll still go down our throat” kind that would try anything legal so long as it took away their boredom. If I by chance didn’t hang out with that kind, then I was hanging out with the comic freaks. I’m talking fans everyone, and it wasn’t American comics either. Japanese Graphic Novels, aka manga. From genres of perversion to genres of comedy-romance, that was how far into the spectrum those guys were.
Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s not like they’re head-over-heels in love with Graphic Novels, I mean, those guys have some form of life in them. Sometimes it’s just hard to point it out because it’s so deeply engrained into them.
Back to the point again, I’ve always been the in-between in my life between the boys and the girls. There are some times that I do have to take one side or the other. Most times it’s when girls and boys are separated, and other times it’s when there just aren’t enough boys and some girls have to take the boys’ side. Usually I am the first volunteer.
Class finally ends and I pack up quickly. I walk out the door after everyone like usual, because I’m usually zoning out in History I never pack up ahead of the bell. As I step out I’m thinking back about my first memory with the Light experience, about Zen. Don’t take it the wrong way here either. I’m not Buddhist or anything. I just believe in a little bit of everything that’s all.
