The Return

My van is a tin ovum. A chilly vacuole in the cell of the land, devoid of hot water and insulation. There's a metallic creak as I open the hatch. A rattle and a shunt. I crack my way out of the shell and into the world, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. The town house was easy after all. Buttons to push. Electricity oozing out of sockets. Machines to do my bidding.

As I tread through the grass stalks, I’m smeared in their juice. My ankle. My toe. My calf. The air is both heavy and light with Gaia’s attar. I inhale it, muscles stretching to thrust me up the slope, dew-sodden and alive.

Morning sun strikes my forehead – an angel’s hand wiping my brow? I reach the summit of my world, and see the hazels in the woods are swinging. There’s a party happening in there. Small feathered things; wrens, thrushes, robins, blackbirds, larks, all twitter and chirp with a passion I’m not sure I’ve ever known. And yet I do know it. Because as the sound waves press into my ears, I become the drum of the land, shaken awake and in time.

The thought flutters quietly into my mind and settles upon a vacant branch: Is the party for me?

What is this bewitchment of the dirt? For it must be a spell. A spirit or djinn. Suddenly I am holding what I thought I’d lost. The magic. The oneness. The precious meaning. Comfort and convenience are one thing. Life is quite another.