Back in Batloun

06/24/2023

Back in Batloun, the village in which my mother was raised. It is very peaceful here, as always. The nature and pace allow it, encourage it.

Lebanon's summer is less abrasive in the mountains: the heat works fewer hours at lower intensity, like someone who quit a job but stays on a few extra weeks to help transition and wrap up the last remaining tasks.

The breeze is friendly and soothing. The sun awakens early and brightly, shining through each window without the urgency of its city twin. "Doing" here is intentional and simple: make meals for each other, tidy, talk about family and the village and the nation and the world, go on walks, drink tea, visit and receive visitors. Repeat on an undefined schedule as time here is only the passage of the sun, stars, and moon.

It feel both right and strange to that Jido is no longer here. Right because it was his moment to pass on, his reward to depart as he did. Strange because every time I have come here, since I was an infant, he was here. Holding me in his arms, teaching me how to be patient and natural, modeling strength and tenderness. He is still here in these words and walls: on the veranda, above the garage, at the table tossing dice in another backgammon match he will surely win. He is a vivid, adoring memory that still onnects us as he did in life. A glint I catch reflecting from one of his prayer beads. The sand in a heart-shaped hourglass that runs its due course with a thoughtful grace.

A timeless imprint on this place, and my spirit.