Staring down into an old disused well, in the deepest darkest part of our woods, I see Chester's reflection in the surface as he sniffs round the edge. His nose not more than a fraction from the damp.
The water, when I kneel to touch it, clear and cold. Likely once used for watering animals in the nearby field, the field's edge (now) more than a dozen metres away. How long has it been here, abandoned, partially covered in timber, silent? A century? Longer? Haven't we walked this part of the woods for twenty years? And yet knew nothing of these rings of sleek grey stones. Stones someone gathered, shifted, laid into the ground. Contents mirroring a sliver of glittering treetop. Above, and all around. Space.
(Not the final frontier type.)
But space that surrounds like gentle enfolding mother's arms.
Space for thinking and moving, wandering slowly, thoughtfully planning, seeing things simply.
Breathing Space.
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