I took the long way to the markets today. Over the field, between the trees. I could have gone straight through the village, but there is a comfort to grass underfoot, and hedgeshadow, and the careful stepping over tangled tree roots, that I wanted to remember was possible even in my suburban neighbourhood.
I bought nothing at the markets; I came home instead with leaf, petals, peace, in my pocket.
I am trying lately to re-map and reconsider this place where I live as beautiful, magical. So maybe my pathway today needs a better name than just the back route south towards town ... maybe a lyric line, like the-wander-green-and-quiet-shadow way. Or the-gentling-after-not-quite-sleeping way.
The people around here do not much like flowers, but this particular route is blessed with roses. White roses billowing against the dim sky, small tight pink roses half-hidden within a tumble of hedgerow behind the bakery, dog roses that had been peach-coloured last time I went this way, but now were white and frail like old, over-dreamed women. So maybe I should say it is, at least in summer, the rose-way, until it merges with the long road where only lavender and dusty shrubs grow.
Of course, because I was walking it in my heart as well as my boots, any name for the path can only be transitory. Next time I walk it, my experience will be different, my need different, and when I get home I'll draw from my pocket darker leaves, maybe pebbles, maybe a blackbird feather, and I'll lay them in my lap for an altogether new name, fresh medicine.