Down the road I see a herd with a herder—an older man, I know, because it’s the older ones who wear turbans. He’s wearing all white, as many do; but it’s the turban that I look at—it’s bright orange. I can’t see the wrap from here, but I know from staring, when closer, that there are layers circling his head and somewhere the end is tucked under. One time I tried imaging a man without his turban—his smaller head—and I could see not only the purposes of sun-protection and visibility, but also how more important the larger-than-head-size turban made the man seem.
Summer, in my locale, means the sky around the gulmohars* bursts into thousands of small flames burning in the heated air above the hot earth. For many years I lived with the meaning of summer in maples, elms, and oaks—trees that broadcast coolness by shades of green deepening as summer swelled.
Until this year, my tenth living here, I have not felt friendly toward the gulmohars—flowering red-orange against the blue—larger for the land being flat. Then, something clicked about local color—meaning the actual colors. I grew into a comfortable relationship with the turban-wearing older men (even looking for them), realizing how in their simple dress, by loud head-color, they achieve a look of self-respect, a recognition of tradition, and a bright attraction for tourist eyes. And, as for the gulmohars, above our sun-parched land, they make a bold statement that they are alive—and boldly residing in this land.
My realization is, “We leave what is familiar in our lives and enter new locales—still carrying what we know—until the moment when we step over a threshold and see and know with new vision.”
*/gool` - morz/