The Jewels of my Writer’s Notebook

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“I went on a walk. A walk with my class. We could see the sun gleaming on ice like our own sunset. Some of the ice had white ice in it. It was like a teensy bit of snow sprinkled down from the heavens. We could see it, the beauty of nature, in our own hands. Even the shriveled plants meant something, the beginning of a new season. A new generation for the world.

Birds. Flutes. Horns. The sound of music. Music that filled the air. A wave of calmness washed over me. It washed over the class.

The beat. It was so fast. It made me want to laugh, it made me want to dance. It made me feel I was at home dancing with my dad.

It reminds me of a hot place with the air swirling around me. I don’t know why but it reminds me of kiwi. It was sour.

It reminds me of tasting marshmallow and vanilla at the same time. It also took me back to a carousel. It smelt like caramel. The carousel was red with lights in my memory.

Alcohol. It reminded me of alcohol. I was on a playdate with Lily once. We could not get nail polish off my thumb so Lily put on alcohol.

It reminds me of a rag, a washcloth. It felt soft and stiff at the same time. It felt like a wash cloth. It reminded me of a bubble bath. It felt like the gray blankets that you get on the airplane if you want to sleep. All of a sudden a picture of the inside of an airplane is what I felt it the second time.

When I felt it I thought of a hardened ball of clay. I instantly thought of the lucky rock  I have at home. It is all gray except for one small streak of white that goes across it. The second time I felt it, it instantly painted a picture in my mind. The picture was a brown clay ball.

It reminded me of a light feather. It reminded me of our Native American study. It was soft and stiff at the same time. I saw a picture in my brain. A picture of a bunch of feathers all clumped together. The feathers were different colors.

My bed. My cozy little bed. The blanket is striped with yellow and white. My room is a cozy room with some of my prized possessions. Like my lucky rock. The bracelet I had to wear on the Alaska cruise. My bed with a lot of stuffed animals on it, my bed is perfect. It is my querencia. Oh how I feel the softness. It is my querencia.”

The author, Leyla Ünsal, is 7 years old. And querencia means “a place that makes you feel most at  home.”

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