Here's some background:
One weekend in 2002, my Persian friend needed a ride to her parents' house up in Vancouver, Canada, and I was more than happy to take her there. Our college was a mere 20 minutes south of the Canadian border, which made the entire trip less than an hour long. She asked if I wanted to spend the weekend with her and her family, and I thought that sounded wonderful. She is such a lovely, fabulous friend, and I was excited to meet her family. Well, to make a long story short, I spent many weekends there, and grew closer and closer to her family. I started to pick up some Farsi, and then actively studied it so that I could communicate with my friend's grandmother, who didn't speak much English. I also loved to talk with my friend's mother, Atefeh, who was always so impressed with each new word and phrase I learned; her encouragement and delight with my progress in the language were what made me want to learn as much as I could, as fast as I could. And I not only enjoyed learning the language, but also just listening to it; at the time, to me Farsi was a language that was spoken by a woman who had so much love in her, so much love to share with people, and who was a light to those around her. In that sense, Farsi was a language of love for me. It was a sense of love that constantly called out terms of endearment such as, "Pisheh man," "Batcham," and "Azize delam." The very sound of it was like a big hug that wrapped me up in warmth.
In 2007, Atefeh became suddenly ill, and passed away 6 months later at the age of 57. I took it pretty hard. I didn't feel much of anything for 3 weeks; I was walking around in a haze. I don't even remember much of that time, except that there were a lot of visitors, and a lot of tea. LOTS of tea.
During that time, I worked with adult ESL students, many of them Iranians. Before, when Iranians would come to our office and to our classes, it was as if my soul would light up. I quickly would walk over and strike up a conversation with them. I was often called to our office lobby to translate for them as they were signing up for classes, and also just to give them a sense of comfort or of comraderie if they were nervous about the test-taking process to get into the classes. I loved these interactions. However, after Atefeh passed away, I dreaded being called into the lobby and having to speak Farsi. It was like my brain suddenly rejected Farsi, and I couldn't stand the sound of it anymore. My thinking, however erroneous, was that I didn't want to hear Farsi unless it was coming out of Atefeh's mouth. Otherwise, it just made me cry. I wanted her to be the one talking to me in Farsi, wanted her to be the one saying, "Ofareen!" or "Ghourbounet beram", or the dozens of other loving things that just flowed out of Ati's mouth when she spoke to me. As loving as my Persian students were and as appreciative as they were when I fumbled through my Farsi in my attempt to help them, my heart wasn't there. Or, maybe it was there too much; every word, every sound, and every Persian-style gesture that my students demonstrated as I talked with them was so painful for me. As soon as I could, I would retreat from the lobby back to my office and then try to shove the Farsi out of my brain as quickly as possible.
As time went on, the pain lessened and I was able to communicate more effectively in Farsi, with both my students and with my friend and her family. I didn't strive to learn new Persian words as I had before, but the sound of Farsi became like a beautiful song to my ears once again. I started listening to Googoosh (a Persian singer) again, I attempted some conversation with my friend, and I didn't have that same sense of sadness anytime I was newly introduced to someone from Iran.
After a year or two, I started becoming more involved with Christian Science. I had been introduced to CS by a coworker and dear friend, and started attending Wednesday evening testimony meetings and then eventually the church service on Sundays. And I started feeling a sense of healing in regards to Atefeh. One significant point of healing was a year or 2 after she passed away, when she appeared in my dream one night. She was smiling and laughing, and I remember that she came up to me and gave me a big hug. With that hug, I suddenly realized that she had not gone, that she had always been there. In that moment, I saw that the idea that she was no longer with me was a lie. It was as if a horrible untruth had suddenly been exposed for what it was, and the glorious, correct Truth was standing in front of us in the form of her presence! She was right next to me, she was in my heart, she had been there the whole time, and she always would be. That next day, I gave a testimony about this dream at a Wednesday evening meeting at the church. This dream was a revelation to me.
A few months later, I started talking with a Christian Science practitioner for help with the lingering feelings of grief and loss. We talked about Atefeh, about how she was always with me even when I couldn't see her, and about the love that she gave me. We talked about how this love was God's love, reflected through her onto me, Father-Mother Love. Through this time, I gradually started wanting to learn and speak Farsi again. It just seemed like something I wanted to do, something I had a desire to do. And it was the first time in almost 3 years that I truly wanted to continue my Farsi study again. Talking with this practitioner and feeling the overwhelming sense of God's Love and Truth guiding me and our conversations, I suddenly felt that Farsi no longer had the sadness or the grief attached to it; in the past, it had been a representation of such a strong sense of love for me, and what could possibly change that, ever? Love is by definition God, and God cannot suddenly change from something loving to something sad. God is unchangeable, and could never represent anything mournful or filled with regret or loss. With these thoughts, Farsi again became the beautiful language that it had been for me before, a language of Love.
Over the past few months, I have again strived to learn new vocabulary and carry on conversations in Farsi. What was once a joy in my life, learning a new language, has returned and become a joy again, and the sadness that was attached to it for a couple of years has disappeared. It also became clear to me that what was once a blessing and a comfort to me, my love of Farsi and of everything Iranian, didn't change into something negative; I had thought, mistakenly, that when Atefeh passed away, her love for me and her comforting presence left me alone, and the sudden loss made me want to expunge Farsi from my brain. I know now that Love never left my side. It was always there, unchanging and constant, as God's everpresence and steady comfort.
Yesterday in my car, as I was listening to the Farsi audio lessons, I felt again that Ati was there. After a several-year-long hiatus of learning Farsi, when I finally decided to come back to something that I loved, I was blessed with the memories and the effects of her love on my life, and how she reflected God's love. Hearing a voice that was so similar to hers, it was as if she was telling me, "I'm STILL here, STILL encouraging you, and I have been with you this entire time." It just took a decision on my part to return, and the love that I had always felt when communicating in Farsi was right there waiting for me.
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