At the Edge of the Grasslands, A Hollow

Reborn in the grasslands

About a half mile from the wood,

I huddled in a hollow ditch in the ground, alone, by myself.

I was a cornered animal,

Lost, scared

(Teeth bared and ready to strike)

Not knowing what I was.

Then a whole different view opened up to me one day.

It made me think,

It made me new,

But it dropped me in the dirt in a land I didn’t recognize

(About one half mile from my forest)

While I was still damp from the birthing fluids of my heart.

Squinting through

Half-open eyes,

I clawed at the soil,

Clawed up the incline,

Clawed out,

Out of the hallow, though my arms were trembling from the first effort of a new life.

And the wilderness rose before me.

I had never been able

To see so far before

Beyond the horizon,

All the way to the sea.

The grasslands rolled mile after mile ahead of me,

And the clouds rolled further still.

The breeze was not chilling,

And the sun was not killing

Or oppressing, or hot, or too bright.

Another shockingly unfamiliar feeling

Had settled itself in my chest.

A calm,

A joy,

A privilege called euphoria

That had settled itself in my chest.

Though my eyes were then open,

Euphoria had become like the reptile’s second eyelid

(Though I cannot seem to remember seeing snake holes in those lands…);

The grass was euphoria,

The weeds were euphoria,

The flowers, the birds, and the bees were euphoria.

I turned back around, were the trees euphoria?

But plummeting, my heart then sank

At the sight of home.

The trees, they loomed

That half-mile away.

My tears, my misery, they are.

My letdowns, my setbacks,

And all of my fears,

Lay somewhere among those trees of my forest.

I looked back to the grasslands,

Back to the weeds,

Back to the wildflowers,

All the way back to the sea.

But the heart knows best

Where the soul should rest,

And I turned my head back to my forest.

Sometimes I feel

That I’m the only one

Who can see

The beauty in being forlorn

(It remains hidden to those

Who have taken a dislike to misery).

The beauty of tears,

The beauty of fears,

The same beauty that’s tied with coming home.

In the wood, I’ll be safer

With all of the familiar

Roots and branches.

I have chosen the practical over what will make me whole

(Even if only for a moment,

What would have made me whole).

Familiarity is the scent of the soil,

The feel of the breeze,

The fire of the leaves.

There’s a familiarity in the emptiness of the sky

On the first clear day

After five days straight of rain and hail,

And I can see that emptiness through a patch of empty space

Above a clearing

Where no leaves and branches block my sight.

This is practical,

And I have chosen the practical over what will make me whole.

So I turn and I start

At my steady,

Plodding pace,

Only half (but maybe more)

Reluctantly back to the wood.

I did not turn back,

I did not rethink,

For rethinking always leads

(Or comes from)

Regret.

Not even for a moment…

…

…Even if only for a moment,

What would have me whole?

…

Even at the edge I didn’t feel so hollow…