As I closed my eyes and turned my head up and away from myself, I felt a part of everything and myself like I never have before. I scribble and untie, let the engine settle and the body understand it doesn’t have to be on point. I let it emanate out and be aware of all that surrounds and travels through me. Even at my deepest point I can be exposed to all that chooses to enter and stay. So much sound and stillness. So much I will never know but here it doesn’t matter. Here I can both be with it and let it go. I will wander away once I have packed up camp though I wish I could stay forever. The worries and desires of the daily are insignificant out here. However, I don’t want this to be just about escape. A chance to flee all that is difficult and challenging. The struggle is and will continue to be rewarding. Out here and in the city are truth, alive and beautiful in their own way. Each as much a part of me as the other.
A sheep baas and its lamb responds. I have heard this exchange so many times over the past few days. Little earthquakes of interactions with animals along the way. I had to hold my nerve when I horse approached me as I walked through a paddock and sized me up. An unknown flying insect decided to flutter around while I camped on a fell, completely alone of other humans but had to take evasive action when a bumble bee got too friendly. I climbed the fence when another horse turned itss back to me and I had a paranoid fear of being dropped kicked through the barrier. “I admire a man who carries his home on his back” said one gent as our paths crossed on the trail. “It’s not normally like this” an all too common refrain from folks as we parted. A reference to the dry and sunny weather. Both a joy and fear as you avoid camping in the wet but know it’s because the climate is changing.
The fells seem almost unreal or alien. A painted picture hanging in front of my eyes, waiting to be removed or torn to reveal the less interesting world behind. They are massive and far away but feel so close that I could reach out and touch them. I want to return one day before I am too old to climb the slopes and feel their magic. I want to return with a friend or partner and share the beauty of this special and disappearing place. It feels so close but agonizingly far away. How to share it? The flux between communicating the experience and allowing the knowing silence.
The trickle of the water has been the anchor for me. The endless song of the world as crying ducks add to it. I wonder if they sense it at all. Do they need too?
