I’ve been away, and last night here in my village, in my garden, we arrived back in the late afternoon after a leisurely tour through my hometown, back the way we had come, but slower, stopping for a soup and sandwich at this little place I know and by late afternoon we had returned.
Something inside changed, a subtle shift, without the noise and distracting toys and useless things this modern world says are needful, but are not. And lying there that first night in the sleeping bag I felt this subtle energy coming up from the earth, that patch of ground my family has owned for over a hundred years, falling asleep to a chorus of tree frogs as a lullaby.
Jane slept late and so the dawn hours were my own.
You know, this had been on the list for a while, a pilgrimage of sorts, of waking up underneath those Black Walnut Trees, with the river running by and morning coffee in hand, watching birds flit from tree to tree, the morning sunlight sparkles through the leaves, to enchant.
It was only for 3 days, two nights camping by the riverside, and afterwards, after we had hugged goodbye and she left to return to the city, walking back down towards my door, I felt this well up of joy, of being blessed, of pure sort of energy kindled, my soul nourished, and ready to tackle whatever comes my way, but also a bit of sadness at seeing her go, I had missed Jane.
The stunning beauty inspired, and how did I not know? How did I let so many years go by, and it has always been there, for my entire life been there, right down there, and I didn’t know? I knew, but I just didn’t KNOW, I saw, but I just didn’t SEE.
We needed this, both of us, and each minute was savoured, each delicious minute of dappled sunshine through the leaves, and the beautiful things, as there were many, and we sipped it all up with the beer in our cans, shared time, and talked, and laughed, and soaked up the magic of the place.
Our phones died, and the only music we heard was at the music festival Saturday afternoon just outside this wee little place where my Grandma grew up, and so it was sort of Kismet that on that very night my sister took us both down memory lane with sounds from our own time, places gone, of our more youthful selves, and I am reminded that the days ahead had now become fewer than the ones behind.
I introduced Jane to old family friends and places that I love, and I can say that you can go back, but only as long as you do it differently than you have before, with more trees, and long grass, and sleeping on the earth, and morning dew on your toes walking barefoot for a pee by the river, as your bare arse scares the crap out of a blawdy Great Blue Heron that flies off in a huff at your impertinence.