Spot Scene

I remember a book I once read (it may have been a poem) that talked about spot scenes: certain scenes from one’s life—usually pleasant—that are preserved in memory and are quite easy to conjure up… sort of like the “happy place” from Happy Gilmore. I’ve been blessed to have several spot scenes: watching the last sunset of the millennium by a pier in the Philippines with my mom and younger siblings; hiking up a hill in the middle of the night (quite inebriated of course) with college buddies; following the Isis’ gentle stream in Oxford on the way to the Trout; several moments with Caitlin; and many more. Lately, there has been one scene in particular from Thailand—not a single moment per se but a moment that occurs quite frequently—that has taken its place among my favorites. It is a scene that is always new and yet so familiar. A passage from another book I recently read describes it best. I don’t remember the exact words but it’s something to this effect: it (the scene I speak about) is like a new song that is played while you are asleep—you hear it when you awake for the first time…a strange song and yet you know it well.

And the scene is this:

I walk through a road surrounded by rice fields. It is the rainy season and the rice fields are lush carpets of green with hints of red, and yellow, and golden brown strewn about. Above me, the sky is clear save for a few well-fed clouds playfully making shapes. My students walk beside me laughing; teaching me Thai words while I teach them English. We laugh together as we avoid cow patties and little dead snakes on the road. Every now and then, rice farmers will pass us, heading home after a long day in the fields, their makeshift tractors coated in mud, old shirts still wrapped around their heads. They look at me and while all I can see is their eyes, I see them smile with appreciation. They know why I am here. I smile back, glad to be a part of their children’s lives…and thankful that they are a part of mine. My students and I keep walking. We pass little ponds filled with beautiful lilies and wave at other kids biking by, three kids to a bike…sometimes even four. The boys talk to me of David Beckham and the girls show me key chains of Korean and Japanese pop stars. The girls giggle as they push each other to invite me to their homes to drink water. Every now and then, they will ask me, “Do you love Mali?” (Mali, which is Thai for Jasmine, is the nickname my community gave Caitlin during her visit). They all swoon and giggle when I say “yes.” I walk some more as my students run around picking random fruit from trees and bushes, trying to get me to taste them. They stop insisting as soon as I give them the English name for the fruit and instead focus their energies on trying to pronounce the new words correctly. We laugh some more and we keep laughing until we reach the main road. Here, they all scurry off to their homes, but not without saying “goodbye teacher” and giving me a wai. I watch them walk off before I hop on my bike and head home.
It is a beautiful scene—always new and yet so familiar.

Like a new song that is played while I am asleep—I hear it when I awake for the first time…a strange song and yet one I know quite well.