|Spring here in Toronto takes me back to 30 years ago, when I was a rebel teenager in high school. The memories of those good old days are still vivid in my mind. I was born and raised until the age of 19 in a very small but picturesque village lying on the northwest of Iran. Spring would always bring all the joyful events from happy singings of nightingales and numerous colorful birds to endless enjoy of playing football in bumped soil lands dubbed court.
We used to study our lessons for exams on the bank of a slow-moving shallow river on fresh grasses. The water was always so clean and appealing as if it originated from paradise. Our lungs were always full of fresh air without any pollutant. I still can feel that how effective our brain was to catch any subject we supposed to learn, but who cared about studying! Imagine couple of rebels without any kind of supervision from school or parents. There was no chance for study more than one hour a day.
Although there wasn’t any kind of technology to distract us, our concentration was always impaired by natural attraction such as whistle of a wild bird.
Dreaming about the past deeps me into the nostalgic feeling of youth, happiness, jubilation; a sort of sensation almost everybody has experienced.