Standing in the Grass
One of my first memories is of the grass.
I was little. I don’t know how old exactly. But young. I was standing on a ditch bank with my dad, and the grass was taller than me. It rustled, moving with the wind. At the bottom, where it met the earth, insects skittered. Bigger things moved, unseen, through the blades.
I was tiny. I felt huge. There, standing with my whole body in nature, my heart open, my soul open, I was immense. There was no separation between me and the place I loved. We were both the same, both there to take it all in and to obey the ancient callings of our instincts.
I’m taller than the grass now. Far enough from the ground that I don’t hear every insect move or see every trembling breath of air. So now, when I feel myself disconnecting from that calling, I do something simple: I sit down. Right there. In the middle of the field, or along the edge of the road. It’s darker, and warmer, held close to the earth. For a moment, everything falls away and I’m that kid again, too open to mark arbitrary divisions. Sitting, listening, as it all washes over me.