dream nights

The road south out of our village, if you could call it a road, the one my neighbors used to take to Tegucigalpa before the highway was built, was one of my favorites for walking.

The land to the south was rocky, green, hard: almost more like English moors except for the maiz y frijoles, platanos y San Juan Primavera growing.

Here in WW, it is harder for me to find space outside to be alone. Small town living has me feeling a bit stifled at times, though I love using my feet instead of car; the deciduous tree-lined streets block out my craving for open sky. In Santa Barbara, Honduras, the Upper Columbia, even San Francisco, I could always find the open and steep spaces to be alone. And sunsets from the Thames were so incredible the lack of ridges was almost forgivable.

The Blues are here, their lit snow-capped ridges, but I am not daily in them, the way my body needs mountains.

One day walking out on that gutted old road, we could smell rain in the air, hear far-off thunder. Storms move so much faster in my old village than any I've seen in the West. We pressed on, not wanting to sacrifice the walk. Soon the rain started, about 45 minutes walk from home, and we turned back, climbing the ruts in the road steep from where it dipped into valley.

Llueve became granizo, large stones pelting our bare arms and legs, and we turned our backs against the force of it and walked backwards for protection in the openness. Reaching the farthest house of the village, a relatively nice ranch owned by a family with a car, we turned in at their welcome, standing on the porch as rain poured and light faded from the sky, water funneling off our glistening skin.

The rain didn't let up, but was no longer hail. The wind blew. We thanked them and left, and while S. and L. walked in flip-flops, I ran the last thirty minutes home, pouring rain, rivers on the road, water above my ankles making currents across the dust. Lightning lighting up the west and the occasional villagers running past me the other direction, both of us laughing, buenas noches.

How I miss my village, that lonely and beautiful night, the sense of homeness I have found further south. And the mountains, the mountains! Their peaks filling my pupils, their precipitous earth under my feet.