My feet are hot already. For a moment I consider accepting it, as I’m still stuck in the mindset of the day-by-day, but shoes aren’t necessary here. I sit down on the springy heather to unlace my boots, savouring the feeling of releasing pressure and the coolness of the air on my skin as I pull off first heavy boots, then damp socks. The grass is cool and pleasantly tickly on the soles of my feet.
My skin is patterned in white and red by the imprint of my socks; the white parts stand proud. It won’t last long, so I look at it. The world is full of these tiny patterns, little fragments of experience. It pays to look at them.
All round me in the turf are more patterns, tiny flowers set into the roots of the grass. Miniscule yellow flowers, four-petalled, look like fallen motifs from a mediaeval tapestry. I see where the inspiration came from for those tapestries where the background is flooded with flowers, at once chaotic and geometric. Because this is what the world is like, when you really look at it.
Have you ever stopped? I mean, really stopped. Let your existence settle to nothing more than one breath following another, and believed that this is enough. I long for that.
Here, I can do that. I sit here for a time. Perhaps it’s a minute, perhaps it’s a year. Here, I don’t mind, because in this place I can settle, let my lungs open and my mind empty of frantic thoughts, because here, there is no fear of tomorrow, no sense of slipping away or being left behind.
Here, I can taste forever.