Last June, I found myself in a small village nearby, singing with a group I cherish. We were part of a quiet concert woven into a day of memorials, honoring the migrants who had perished at sea.
The ceremony unfolded in a field behind the village’s Communal Hall, where an exhibition laid bare the hardships of those fleeing their homelands, seeking safety, seeking hope. Stones marked with names of the lost formed a growing memorial. Voices rose to read their names and ages, world music filled the air, and testimonials spoke of survival amidst unimaginable odds.
It was a beautiful day, heavy with emotion.
At some point, the weight became too much—the tragedies, the music, the stories.
I stepped away.
Just a few meters beyond the crowd, I lay flat on the earth, surrendering to her embrace. The grass cradled me, soft as a whisper, while the blue sky stretched above, painted with drifting clouds. Birch trees stood sentinel, their shadows cooling me from the sun's fierce heat, their leaves rustling in a gentle dance, swaying in and out of my vision.
And there I lay.
Watching with open eyes.
Listening with open ears.
Feeling with an open body.
Breathing in the perfume of summer flowers and sweet grass.
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