Because although I still have a lot to learn, my valley is claiming me through small gods.
whispering voices of sheoak
the different rhythm of the feet of my chickens that tells me they are excited to follow me and makes me laugh out loud
the sound of a blue-banded bee long before it can be seen that tells me if it’s flying with or without pollen-covered legs
the bank of clouds hugging the hillside at dawn
the swing of wind to cool southerlies
the beckoning of the wild island in winter
the first time I notice that the sun signals autumn, something about the afternoon shadows is different
the keening cry of the black cockatoo heralding a rain storm
the burst of green through soil
the unfurling leaf
hearing the blue-tongue lizard trying to walk silently on dried up leaves which betray his presence
the resurrection of moss after the hot summer
the gaze of the magpie that makes me feel small
the longer afternoon light bent through the plum tree
the warm night-scent of native franjipani under a clear night sky
coming home to the valley I live in and seeing it tucked in against the hills, cuddled by trees and feeling its welcome
the trembling of wet leaves in the sun after a rain storm
a flash of red in the fading strawberry leaves, the slow secret ripe strawberry
a face full of spider web and the apology to the spider
magpies in conference, they meet in a circle, talk and hush as you draw near
I’d love for others to write about their small gods as a way to begin, but first, listen to Small Gods by Martin Shaw or find out more at drmartinshaw.com because writing these down may be a mistake of mine, but I’m still learning how.