A reflection on Service as the Path
The nostalgia flashes, the electricity in the brain finds its way to that old pathway of joy. The smell of soil fills my lungs, and the deep hole begins to vibrate. The spade goes in, crunch. The focus remains on the heaped soil as it moves through space and the background blurs like a kaleidoscope of colours, that eventually comes to rest as the spadeful is poured onto the larger pile. The nostalgia reminds me of summer days in the heat with my top off, muscles rippling, causing pain to my body through physical exertion so that my mind could stay clear. I was back there now.
The squeeze into the wrists, the forearms groan under the pressure. I dig deep both metaphorically and literally, and push the muscles a little further, harder; the goal at hand absorbs my attention and the pressure holds my focus. The hole gets deeper, as the inches scrape away. The spade scrapes the metal leaving a resonating chime in my experience, clang, followed by the heavy crunch of the soil landing on the mole hill. The metal handle is cold, and the smell of sweat fills my nostrils. A sweet smell of straw and soil, of body salts and joy, a kind of musky rat burrow smell. The experience of my armpits and inner chest lightly brush against my t-shirt, as it comes in and out of contact with the loose fitting fabric. My chest hair and nipples add a layer of separation for the t-shirt to slide, so that the sweat dissipates, and my skin remains smooth and dry.
I stand up from out of the hole and hold a spade supported stance, wheezing with the out breath, the air flows heavy from my lungs. the pain held in my forearms and shoulders escapes into the air, osmosing out of the body, connecting and catching with the breeze as my troubles and cares are blown away, wafting on a zephyr, as I return to one.