Some days are just tightly strung with this unbidden longing for the wild places of my home. The places that stir my breath and my heart into quickened beating, where my soul expands beyond the confines of this life and into empty cold air, dancing on the rain driven winds. I am not a child of summer. I am an autumn changeling, a winter wisp, twinkling in the frosted air, creeping in the ponderous fog towards the tiny cabin and the glittering lonely fire shining in the deepening dark. I ache for the wind to kiss my face with it’s salt encrusted lips. I ache for the dark smell of wet earth as night trails in blazing stars. I ache for the silence and the solitude, the ancientness and the awe and the tingling fear of aloneness that lives in me there.
My life is full. It is brimming over with needs and wants and I am happy to give most of the time. Grateful I am called upon to give in these limitless ways to these cherished hearts. But there are just days when simply looking at an image of some part of my far away homeland startles a cry of sorrow from my mouth. Unbidden, unwanted, misunderstood – it is soft and yet so broken. I can look into the reality of this place and see where so many joins don’t fit. I can see the reality of that place and see how many parts of my soul have fled there in the deepest wretchedness of my darkest nights, despite its many imperfections. There will always be a healing hum that comes from the place of my birth. Not the place my mamma lives. Not the places I have necessarily dwelt, though they were splendid too, but the deep dark green, the grey, green ocean, the slate grey skies and the wind, the cruel, cold, enlivening winds that smack your face and wake you to full attention. The high places and the low, the forest and the glen, the shore and the cliffs that crown it, the cave and the fossilised remnants of a life no longer mine. These all call to me because I am a part of them and my many lives there float around me keening a howling lament to the north. And I, here where I have found a different kind of happiness, hear my whining rejection of the south and all it’s strangeness. An ancientness that does not connect with my soul but leaves me hungrier, ever hungrier for the taste of deep dark soil in my mouth and for the weak and watery sun that lights up the mist as it coils itself around my feet and the soaking earth that I walk upon. I miss it like a lost child. And yet. I am here and here I must forseeably stay. And that is the source of the keening in my soul. That is the source of this restless spirit and the brackish taste of resentment in my mouth. This knowledge that the little hearts and the mighty loves that keep me here, hold fast that part of me that beats in the wildness that remains so far out of reach.
And so I ache.