Wind for Wings

I bring our children to a protected wildland. We breathe the air. Smell leaf, dirt, and pine. They call to me, and one another.  We sing to the birds and look for toads and turtles in the pond.  In the woods, we find joy and calm. We hold hands. We let go. We run, stand, listen, giggle, and throw cattail cotton to the marshy meadow. We walk and walk, surrounded by green and goldenrod. 

I wonder if I could build a home that feels like the woods, - quiet, empty, still, and yet buzzing, vibrating with life, with air, plant, and animal. 

When we feel it is the moment to move from one house to another, I will look for a home beside a meadow. I want a meadow. Not to own, but to hold with my soul. But let's not call this future. Let's not call this wishing. Instead, I write this as an intention for manifestation.  

I want to eat, bed, and love beside the wildland. I want wind for my wings. I want swallows, willows, and fog out my windows. I want to be in a meadow. To be in a space where birds race, swoop, cluster, and soar. A place where grass grows and grows, tangling into nests and hay. 

I want mighty, mangy wildflowers at my feet in the spring. I dream of stony streams, blackberry brambles, and a vegetable garden in summer. I imagine the color in autumn, and in winter, white. 

Oh, look how the plans unravel. 

Here I am at this moment, carrying our bodies, by car, to the meadow, mountain, sky, and water. 

We are worthy of this devotion. 

Perhaps that's when it will be time to move house when I am fully settled in my self-devotion. When I have the belly for such feasting.