Written in the Nairobi, Kenya workshop
If I were to tell you of the moon and how she wakes me in the night with that cloud of brightness falling over my bed, would you be able to feel the hush of her shimmery light, or know the deep place it stirs in me when I wake to that sight?
If I were to tell you of the smell of dry grass when the rain finally begins to fall and the straw-like blades give way under heavy, plump-round drops, would you feel the quickening of pulse, the pleasure and relief that rushes in when drought is broken?
If I were to tell you of the hyena’s rhythmic whoop whoop whooping, of the bush buck’s sharp alarm, of the guinea fowl’s clang clang call, would you close your eyes and let these creature sounds speak to you in a language you do not know?
I am here, drenched in moonlight, softened by rain, perfumed by the fragrance of grass undone, and charmed, quieted, yes, centered by the sound of wild ones with whom I share this sloping farm, and I have not words for the grace poured in my cup—this city girl who grew up to find herself held here in Africa’s warm embrace.