There is a memory that has lived quietly within me for as long as I can remember.
I have never been certain whether it belongs to my childhood, a dream, or a place my heart simply knows.
Yet it returns.
Always the same.
It is a sunny day.
Before me stretches an endless field of yellow flowers, glowing beneath a warm sky. There is no one else there.
The entire field has somehow been given to me.
I run without a destination, my yellow dress dancing with the breeze as though it, too, has become part of the field. The wind is gentle. The silence is complete. There is nothing to interrupt the joy of simply being.
In that place, I need nothing.
I ask for nothing.
I simply run.
Then, as quietly as it came, the memory begins to fade.
The flowers disappear.
The sunlight softens.
The little girl drifts gently away.
But something always remains.
A fragrance.
So delicate that I have never been able to give it a name.
And a mellow heart.
Not excitement.
Not sadness.
Just a quiet peace that lingers long after the field has disappeared.
I have stopped asking whether the memory is real.
Some gifts are not given to answer our questions.
They are given to remind us that somewhere within us there is still a place untouched by fear, untouched by hurry, untouched by time.
Whenever life becomes heavy, I think of the little girl in the yellow dress.
She reminds me that joy does not always announce itself.
Sometimes…
it waits patiently in a field of yellow flowers.
—
With Agape love,
Migdalia
“Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.”
— Psalm 16:11