Often when I sit to write, I begin with a photo, or a piece of art. This particular piece was inspired by a photograph that a friend had taken. I believe that illustrating words, and giving a story to an image, can be incredibly powerful.
It was warm and bright. The shadows were taking over the field as night drew near. This was the magic hour — the time when the world faded and nothing mattered outside of breathing. I inhaled in the rich scent of the earth and sank from where I was standing onto my knees. Yesterday it had rained, and now the dampness left behind seeped into my jeans leaving two large wet marks where they touched the ground. I let my fingers sink into the dirt, relishing the feeling of it as it coated my hands. There was never a moment I felt more alive than when I was right here, at this time of day.
There was something about the trees here, something that made the soil around them pulse with energy. I could feel that energy travel from where my fingers were buried up my arms. I was taking root like the trees, but unlike the trees. They were held to one place, captives. I was bound to the earth, but I could move, as long as I came back. There was always the pull to come back.
The last rays of sunlight flickered as the giant orb began to give up and rest for the night. The fog would set in soon. I pulled my hands from the ground and wiped them on the top of my legs before standing up. The power of the trees coursed through my veins again, and it was time for me to withdraw back into the world I had left behind.
Photo by Heidi Jahn Photography