Where it begins is in a concealed garden. A nimbus of insects lit by the sun dances us into being. In the first wilderness an iron bell peals an uncertain matins and calls first him and then me to communion. God's work is done. We can rest. The smell of mud and bladderwrack scents the air. A breeze stipples our skin, pricks out the patterns of chill on our new lives. The wind recalls to us that we are mortal, and blows random maps our way, which we must learn to decipher before we can begin the journey.
Here I work in the hollow of God's land, measuring the Earth's deco curve with every peeling of the fruit (still blissfully unaware of anything fanged or sharp-tongued in the apple tree).The ocean flexes its blue muscle and spreads the cryptic shape of things to come across the shoreline. We salvage what we can, as though somewhere hidden in these signs is the knowledge that we are truly where it all begins.