I am seven years old. It’s just before I move houses for the first time. I am sitting cross-legged in the brown grass, at the edge of the forest, admiring the dainty snowdrops sprouting. My hands are getting dirty as I collect sticks and leaves to make a geometric pattern on the ground. I keep an eye on my brother. We’re at good distance for accompaniment, doing our own thing together. He’s concentrating carefully while tying nautical knots on the swing-set. I am listening to the birds polish the air with their chirps. Out here we’re free to follow our instincts, our natural movements. I hear the howl of winter’s wind traveling far unencumbered by summer’s leaves. I take my hat off and ponytail out to feel the cold air in my hair. I pull my bangs back to feel better the sun on my face. My pants are getting wet from the moist earth beneath me. Mom told me to wear snow pants but I was relieved when she let me not listen. I start to hum in resonance with all that I am witnessing. I am within myself and attuned to what’s without at once. My body rocks gently to praise to the breeze. I drop my head, mimicking the closest snowdrop, and smile smelling the earthy odor that tells me spring is coming.
