Whispers on the Wind

 One of my earliest memories is of standing at my bedroom window gazing at the line of distant blue-grey mountains where I ran free in my imagination.  I spent a lot of time in those hills with a woollen rug rather than a carpet of grass beneath my feet. I longed to be among them, in the fresh air with the sky stretching above me as far as my eyes could see.  My room was at the front, over my father's newsagents and the chatter of the customers and sounds of suburban traffic drifted endlessly through the window and up the stairs.  

When I grew older, I escaped to the park alone and walked by the duck pond, following the paths that meandered under the trees and zig-zagged around the flower beds.  I loved those green places but they were bitter-sweet for they gave me a taste of nature that whetted my appetite so that I hungered for more, much more.  I wanted open spaces, miles and miles of freedom, rugged mountains, stone paths that crunched under my feet, chasms and boulders, clear flowing streams, grassy banks and meadows touched by gentle breezes that made the flowers nod and sway.  I wanted land, water and air all around me. The park was an escape, a place of solitude and quiet where I was happy and sad at the same time, mixed up feelings of childish pleasure co-existing with a deep longing, a mature feeling too complicated for one so young.  It was like a stone lodged in my gut that reminded me of its presence at regular intervals.  

As the years passed, I grew to understand this feeling.  I was a wild child.  Something called to me.  It was inside me yet also outside of me.  There was a tenor in the air and I loved its voice.  And I came to recognise that my father heard it too.  I saw that look in his eye as he stopped to listen to a song-bird, looked at a flower or stood with arms folded, leaning on the shop counter watching the rain bouncing off the pavement outside.

He came from a long line of farming people who were (and a few still are) embedded in the land.  The earth was not only under their nails but their skin as well, deep in their hearts and souls.  And so it is with me.  Some, across several generations, were torn from the land, forced from their home by economic necessity, myself included.  It is a terrible wrench and there is much work to do in putting down roots in a new place, not only physical but psychological and emotional too.  It is easy enough to pass your days somewhere but not really dwell there. 

I lived in another city for many years but never felt rooted in the place. Just as in my early years, I spent long periods of time in its parks and gardens but that familiar longing tugged at my insides and something called on the wind.  I began going on camping and walking holidays to the Lake District and Wales but still the voice whispered "come away."  In the end, I did.

I now live in a rural area amid hills and fields. Birds and small wild creatures are part of my daily life.  I feel my roots sinking more deeply into the earth with each passing day and my soul soars up among the branches of the trees and up into the star-filled skies.  This is freedom. 

The voice is still on the wind, it floats around me.  It is closer and I feel its breath against my cheek.  It whispers a different message now, its tells me that I am home.