Messy hair and dirty feet. The flushed faces of children who have been running and wrestling for the past hour. Grit on the floor from the dirt they tracked in after playing in the rain-soaked garden. A mixture of leaves and dandelion heads, sand, and water is added to an old battered bowl she uses to make potions.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“making spells” she answers and I muse that all children are witches, conjuring bugs and the dirt.
There are toys on the driveway; the door left open, an invitation for the wind. Small boots and socks sprout on the lawn like flowers of childhood. The sound of laughter and yelling are hymns sang in play, and limbs tumble about so quickly you can’t be sure if what bumped you was a hand or a foot.
Soft hands reach for the wildness, gently lifting, holding, then releasing their self-made magic back into the world again. They remind me of my own.
This is what it looks like when Home is Wild.
