I have now lived in the same place for *almost* one year. (One year ago today, I was having my goodbye parties at school and my "comida de despedida" with the teachers.) I found myself walking and biking along a certain country road many times in the past year. It has become perhaps the most enduring of any spiritual practice I've taken up. This spring alone I have sprinted down it in my winter coat, danced through the fog, and come home in my sports bra because it was so hot on my bike ride. It's been windy and cold and hot and humid and everything in between. I watched the fields nestled along the roads turn from gold in the fall to the distinctive gray-brown of winter. More recently, I saw the tree silhouettes fill with soft green leaves. The grass is high now, up to my waist in some places. Mulberry bushes sport sour red berries and green wildflowers stretch toward the sky, still lacking colorful blooms.
On Monday, I walked down it and decided to focus on experiencing place with all of my senses. I became aware of the taste in my mouth, the smell of budding summer, felt the wind glide through my fingers, and closed my eyes and listened.
Onomatopoeia are great. I mean, onomatopoeia is a great word in itself, but I like it when words sound like what they mean. Especially in Spanish. ¡Cataplum! ¡Chin! ¡Cuaz! Susurro... So great. However, I think they sometimes (often) fall short. I wish I could describe to you the sounds I heard Monday and today on my walks. The blades of grass whispered as they brushed against each other. Birds noisily chirped as they worked. My shoes trudged along the ground. I was blown away by how the onomatopoeia for each sound fell so desperately short of the actual noise.
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