The Land of Marsh and Pine
Once again, my horizon is flat. I am no longer in the land of jagged peaks and dramatic vistas. The air is heavy and wet and warm. Sweat pools in the valleys of my face. It feels unfamiliar after so long in the wind.
I have felt a sense of ease and familiarity being back in the world of my upbringing — though I thought I was perfectly acclimated to my life in the arctic tundra. I identified where I was on the road by the mountainsides before and around me instead of country fields. I knew where the blueberries emerged in the wet foothills; my skin paled with the lack of direct sun.
Upon my return, I realized what was nagging and tugging at my gut whilst living in the rural spruce forests. Trepidation. A quiet fear of the unknown, mingling with awe when shaken and settling like oil and vinegar when left alone.
My world of pine needles and sandy soil sits warm in my belly like a sip of whiskey. It is a comfort to dive into the same lake where I encountered my first leeches as a child. There is contentment in walking through the same woods my father carried me in before I came up past his knees. Where I was taught to fish in the lagoons and navigate a boat through calm waters. There are no rapids in the land of marsh and pine. There is only quiet.
