Threading the needle
This morning I got up and coughed my way to City Park with the dogs in tow in the rain. It was one of those sun showers that we have been seeing a lot of these days. In Calabria, Italy when it rains with the sun, it means the foxes are getting married (foxes figure largely in Italian lore), in Hindi it is the jackal’s wedding, in the US we believe the devil is beating his wife, in Spain it is that witches are getting married. It’s all about the trickster animal making folly.
Loca, Heidi and I walked the full length of City Park and just as we got to Marconi and were rounding the turn, we saw in the dense foliage two Louisiana herons – one with wings outstretched and the other tucked in – nestled in a moss laden backdrop. Right then I let out a big sigh – the one that comes from too much time on the road, too much time away from home, and an overarching feeling that I’m back where I belong.
It was quiet and still in the park during the sun shower, and the air was slightly cooler from the rains we have been having the last week or so while I’ve been gone. You could smell the fecund air at every turn. Perhaps the witches and foxes are getting married, but I know this trick bag only too well and in a world of uncertainty behind Door Numbers 1, 2 and 3, it’s nice to know the familiar, really know it, to embody it.
That’s what home feels like, this is what home smells like, and what it looks like even with my eyes closed.