The Challenge
I recall warm days with the sun bouncing off my back as I ran through the barley fields in my native Kosovo. I would spot my patient grandmother tending to the crops that grew on soft and dark dirt. Tall, green, and robust in abundance, these crops were aided to with delicate care as they returned the favor with remarkable taste. She would embrace each handful of dirt as she cautiously laid it at the roots of the crops. While I breathlessly waited to scamper from the front door of the house to conquer the day, my mother would straighten my clothes and comb my hair back. Then she would gaze at me, as if she hoped to cherish the memory of my clean face, clandestinely knowing that when I would arrive home later, I would be coated in the day’s venture of playing in the dirt. That was the fondest reflection of life that I have treasured. That dirt would give birth to the radiant vegetation, which in return gave life to my family and I. The plantation back home may not be equivalent to the fields under the bright American sun, but I remain reassured that the dirt remains the same. My home is where dirt is...
Today, the quest of the day is to avoid dirt. It comes as an effortless task to the older me in comparison to the troublemaker that I used to be. Now I prudently elect my attire and pay special attention to the minor details in the presentation of the clothing that my body carries daily. I march on dark pavement that my car is resting on. My heels began bickering with the ground, forming a soundtrack to the rapid walk I take to my vehicle. The feuding halts abruptly as I enter and insert the keys in the ignition while the seatbelt greets me with a firm hug. It has become a comfortable habit to look back to my house as I drive away, resting my eyes peacefully on each expected turn of every corner. My home looks different now then it used to in Kosovo, but it is built above familiar dirt. This place that carries the base construction is created of dirt. The main foundation that I grew up on was subsiding on dirt. It is the core meaning of “home” to me, regardless of location or the structure…
The scenery glitters before my eyes in numerous swift episodes. From house to house and roadway along the freeway, the San Diego Metropolitan trolley is a fascinating tour guide that takes me to many sites that have become part of me. I recognize streets signs, tall buildings, and colorful shops, all freckled with their own significant styles that seem to make this place a window to perfection. I ride the trolley every Sunday as I make my way to the art museum. I pass by the cemetery each time, allowing my eyes to focus on the never-ending field, only to turn away with feelings of discomfort settling down on my skin. It’s a moment on the trolley that feels darker, despite the expansive emerald field that it is placed on. In my homeland, it is believed to be an immorality for admiring graves, but it is humanly unattainable not to notice the art in the cautious and orderly arrangement of each individual gravestone. As I left the cemetery, I noticed the dirt that was clinging to my shoes. I rubbed it off and inspected at it with careful consideration. This dirt exists all around me. It is located at home, underneath the trolley tracks, on the side of the freeways, and everywhere else where imagination dwells. Life springs on top of dirt, and foundation is constructed on it, while death is brought six feet beneath dirt. I peeked behind me to the dirt that I left to be transported by someone else and wondered where it would be transferred to after…
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