Where images transport us

I am continuing with my photography classes. I took classes before in an art academy in another country, many years ago before the digital age,at a time in my life that I had far less daily responsibilities. My dharmic path was only in the beginnings of its unfoldings,I remember those days as having far more freedom to explore.I am not certain that is how I actually felt back then,as it seems the mind often takes us places to get tangled and constrict our creative potentials, which are vast and infinite,despite what our mind tells us in any particular moment. I was sitting in my photography class, looking at photos that the instructor had shot herself.I was looking at the various images of people from different parts of the world on the street, , living their live simply yet magnificently  as we all do in the ordinary and at the same time remarkable way living is.There was a particular photogragh of a group of  little Chassidic boys playing on the street in Williamsburbg,Brooklyn,a place the artist,my teacher once lived. I have frequented this area often and regularly as a young child,as it was the home of my grandparents. A powerful but subtle image can literally transport one through the  nuanced  light falling , the sparkling  in a child's eyes to some other place, some other era, as if it is almost touchable in real time and space again. I was seeing myself  as a child of 5or 6 with long chestnut braids bouncing to the sound of alternating jump ropes, slapping on the concrete grey pavement on a hot summer day in front of an old  bitter sweet chocolate colored brownstone. I was wearing a skirt that gently swayed with each  jump.When I visited Williamsburg , girls had to wear skirts and stockings ,even in the hot summer.My grandmother in her playfulness indulged me and despite the norms of her culture she agreed that hot lycra tights on a summers  day was not fun .. The children spoke in Yiddish, a language I did not understand, but we all shared the joy and wonder of childhood and jumping rope. Some of the girls looked at me with fear, some with jealousy that I was allowed to jump rope bare legged. Other deliquescent memories appeared like the smell of cod frying in my grandmothers kitchen, her giving me a calm bath to  cool off from the summer heat, no bubbles as we both agreed it made me sneeze and itch, and the most" pwinkling "(a special form of twinkling that occurs only between those that really love to hang out together) mischevious, green eyes of my grandmother.I commented to my teacher   that she captured  so well that place that was so special to me. She then said to me,"I can imagine you in Williamsburg  shooting on the street. I quietly said to myself, "so can I.....".The photo above is from Life magazine-chilhood and jump roping,,,