The Sharon Valley
The land, covered with green grass and tall rubber trees, was the best teacher that the Lord endowed me with. It is a place near my home, sitting where, for the first time I sensed the savor of shrubs that tempted me to taste them, the sparkling rays of sun that dashed down to caress me and the sweet singing of birds that made me sing with them. That place taught me that every falling leaf is not necessarily weak, but what makes them survive is how much they are ready to hold on to the situations they face. That is the place where, being a six-year-old child, I felt the presence of “the rose of Sharon” (Song of Solomon 2:1) in me and discovered that I have a mind of my own. It was there, laying on the meadow, that I wished to go near to the sun, touch the hiding stars and to be one of them. It was there I learned that I am not the best. The trees danced well, the birds sang well, the wind touched the things that I failed to and the sun climbed heights that I could not, but still the same place taught me that I am not the worst either, for I have fingers, papers and pen; and sitting beneath the caring arms of the trees, eyes of the sun, on the lap of the mother earth, I could write… write… and write.