Poem – The Ten Fields
The Ten Fields
Out past the noise of engines and errands,
I walked until the earth spoke plain.
Not in words, but in the pulse that steadied underfoot —
the old reassurance: you are held.
That was Safety, the first field, where moss builds its patient empire
and roots do their silent arithmetic.
Further on, the path bent toward a stand of birch.
Each tree leaned to another, their white skins touching.
That was Belonging — the way trunks, even when apart, share the wind.
A kestrel flashed overhead, a strike of purpose.
That was Agency, clean and precise,
no apology for hunger or direction.
By the river, light played with water.
Every ripple was an attempt, every glint a reward.
That was Valuation,
the river saying: effort is never wasted if it moves you toward the sea.
At the canyon’s rim, thorn and blossom lived in the same stem.
That was Boundary, the art of being both invitation and defence.
In a meadow, two deer nosed each other’s flanks, then bounded away together —
the grace of Intimacy, the knowledge that closeness requires space to run.
Later, clouds opened and rain wrote its silver handwriting on the soil.
The land drank without complaint —
that was Contribution, the joy of giving back what one has been given.
High on the ridge, hawks spiralled in quiet argument about the wind.
That was Status,
the instinct to find one’s height without forgetting the thermals that lift all wings.
Dusk came, and the world loosened its boundaries —
foxes began their patrol, a moth tested the night.
That was Exploration, the soft curiosity that outlives daylight.
And when the stars arrived, the last field opened —
Transcendence, where even fear remembers its lineage to wonder.
I stood there, breathing the old air that has seen everything and still forgives.
Sometimes you don’t need to master your feelings.
You only need to walk until each one finds its landscape,
and the body, recognising the terrain, calls it home.
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