I am Being Played

Sometimes I can't believe I'm in a city. I watch my feet navigating the broken pavements and suddenly wonder what I'm doing here, so far away from my Welsh hills.

Four years ago we were in China, in another city, and I stood watching my son play on a pile a gravel and small stones besides an urban dual-carriageway. A pile of debris from roadworkings, an intention to sometime make a flat surface for pedestrians to walk on. He was so lost and happy in his game, fully focused on picking up stones and stirring gravel. He was completely in the flow, the flow that we hear about these days, the zone. It wasn't a green bank, in dappled sunlight, by a gentle stream, the background noise of the usual fucking cars, not of small birds and courting pigeons.

But I knew that my son was right, that his enjoyment of that place was profound and special, and as I watched my feet this morning, I remembered his play and happiness. I enjoy living in cities, but I do not feel at home in them. If I think too deeply about living in a Welsh valley, about the stillness or storm of a winter's night, about the freezing air early in the morning, and the call of the crow, tears will come to my eyes. I have to catch myself, check the clock against the morning appointment, take a few long slow breaths, and change direction. There is a theme in the books I read, whispering that I should yearn for the hills, that I should feel un-ease in the city. I am being played.