Cathedrals of wheat

Ancient memories of fog and soil

I remember the smell of it

The Soccer Field.

It must have been right at the end of elementary school. I would get up early and put on cleats. Somehow I wanted to play this game. I think I played it for a few years. Maybe until Junior High. I had a green gatorade bottle with something sweet in it. I remember the squishy plastic between my fingers.

Soccer fields were nestled in between mountains. My homeland. Behind school grounds, the misty hills of upstate NY. Echos of surburban families cheering on kids.

I absolutely hated it. I hated the pressure. I hated that everyone was looking at me.

I always secretly just wanted to go home. I was afraid to admit I wanted to stay in and play video games and read and watch movies. I didn’t even realize that was what I wanted.

Something in me also wanted to be the hero though, and make the goal. I hated the burning in my chest running across the field, but I wanted to win. I hated my thighs burning in the chilled air, but I wanted to be the one who made it.

I never made a goal though, (ever) and I really didn’t want to get up in the early morning to run, breathless, from one net to the other. But I did.

But I must have liked it too. I don’t remember if I chose this activity or if it was chosen for me. Regardless, for a time, I was there.

The misty fog on the green carpet, and the feeling of after- (I think my favorite part of the game was after) the weird old country house that was my home and the endless strands of wheat field behind it. After some game, sweaty in the balmy gray air of early fall, I wandered into the field that day. Wet wheat smells like earth and animals walking. The composting of leaves and soft heavy soil. Soil you brushed off of carrots from the garden. Soil shifted around roots and buds. The dirty bitter tang of earth.

Muted watery tones of fields and hills, and people in the background.I’m not sure the people matter any longer. Maybe that night I would watch The Neverending Story with a big bowl of popcorn on the living room floor. I remember the Nothing, and being scared. I remember eating the homeade popcorn and watching , terrfied, the Nothing eating up the world and carving black holes in my chest.

Growing up for some its rare to know exactly how you want to spend your time. Usually the memories of the soccer era bring confusion- why did I play that game?

Therefore it was a strange sensation when I had a visceral flashback of the color of rain and the deep indigo gray grass. The smell of the air, and the wide open of the world. The unpleasant aspects of playing sports but the backdrop of torn up earth and forest vistas, and realizing it was a pleasant memory, not a stressful one anymore.

Probably I was trying new things and seeing if I liked them, but it is no surprise that the memories that bring positive feelings are the background. Not the competition or the pressure of play, but where I was playing before, during, and after.

The soccer field, a cauldron.

I long for the endless quiet forest, the bonfire, the muted tones of mist and fawns.

To be a thing of earth and wheat, the smell of animals walking.

The tapestry of memory.

A memory that glistens, frost-like, on the sharp edge of the end of November. Heading towards winter, a story of statue mountains and plateaus. Emerald green, ochre outlines.

Gemstones inside, waiting to be unearthed.

Forever cauldrons everywhere, new visions uncovered.