It is hot and dry, the soles of my shoes slipping and powerless against what feels like scorched earth. It took me all day to motivate and go on this run, and now, as expected, it is already the best part of my day even though only a few minutes have passed. The ancient vineyards are riveting under the hot evening sun, still beating strong at 8pm, and the crickets are buzzing loudly. Mosquitos and other insects are flying everywhere, bumping into my forehead, eyes and mouth, and butterflies are scattered in a frenzy, almost as to get things done before sundown.
It is a new trail for me, and yet, as always, the familiar feeling of just being one with the Earth is present. It's quite simple, that thumping of my feet on the ground, one after the other, one two one two one two, a strong connection to the soil, to what's underneath it. A soil that knows no boundaries, no passport, no division, no country, no language. No matter where I am in the world, that connection remains the same as it ushers a deeply comforting feeling. To think I would have missed out on all this had I not come is more aggravating than any of my current struggles on the dusty uphill trail. The first few runs in a new place are always the hardest, the body not being used to the new climate and the new terrain, bucking and screaming internally like an unbridled animal. From the outside, I must look like a clumsy, stubborn visitor who has no idea what they signed up for. There is no one around.
The Earth on the other hand just is, idle, content with the pressure of my feet on its surface; our communication, a morse code. My throat is dry. I stop to pick up a small pear fallen from a nearby tree and I can feel my hands swelling with the heat, my fingers pulsating against my rings. The little pear is just perfect and I notice a couple more on the ground.
The trail is dry, crumbling even, and I can feel her pain coming from the cracks on the ground. This soil is thirsty because it hasn't rained or snowed in over six months, and the few storms that have passed have been too quick and harsh for the ground to be able to absorb the water. The water instead drains downhill and the cracks grow bigger, looking like hungry voids that belong in a dried lake more so than a hillside landscape. A sweaty mountain biker wearing a t-shirt a size too small rides around the bend but doesn't see me, which suits me rather well, as I am soaking in the late afternoon light, marveling at the way the sun caresses the blonde wheat fields, secretly glad to take another break. There is no need for conversation when we are all here for the same reason.
I enter a trail deep in the woods, single track, shaded, covered in dry leaves and dead branches. I pick up speed and start to feel agile, fast, as If belong, I belong on this new trail, breezing past trees and zig-zagging my way downhill. My breath is mashing with the air around me, the pulse of the hot Earth one with my skin. Suddenly, a blackberry bush stretched across the trail digs its thorn in my thigh, as to remind me that I am a mere guest and not the owner of the trail. Ouch, I say out loud, as If someone could hear me. Blackberry bushes have this way of carrying the most delicious fruits and yet be inamicable and guarded. Perhaps that is what allows them to create such rich fruit.
I slow down and notice animal tracks. I can't tell if it's real or imagined, but I hear a deep grunt coming from behind me, the possible noise of a boar. Boars are mostly harmless, but not when they have young, and maybe a little less at sundown, so I pick up the pace trying not to slip on the dry leaves and steep downhill. I dodge more blackberry thorn branches and acacia leaves, unscathed. Nature will continue to do as it does. After all, I am a passerby on this trail where trees and other creatures reign wild and free.
Once I make it to the asphalt road, the sun is starting to set, but the air is still hot. I do belong here, I can feel it. This ancient land is part of where my ancestors once lived, farmed and built their homes. This land knows war and has had grape must and blood spilled on it. It can't talk, but It communicates just the same to those who listen.
I pass by a lone cluster of brick houses with a fence out front and a handful of healthy-looking chickens roaming around, enjoying the last of their freedom before being corralled indoors for the night, safe from predators. At once, one of the roosters, with white shiny feathers, attacks a hen, by chasing her and viciously pecking at her head while scratching her with his claws. She is clearly hurting and making high-pitched noises. A few seconds later, as I watch aghast from the side of the road, a speckled white and black rooster comes to her rescue and shoos the white rooster away with determination and authority. With ruffled feathers but a proud demeanor, the hen returns to her business nonchalantly, as if nothing happened. She too, feels she belongs, despite being recently told she didn't.
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