By Sophia

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Preface: I took the content for this post from a creative writing exercise I did in my journal on September 10th, after an evening walk near our Airbnb in Domžale, Slovenia. Part of the exercise was to find colors during my walk and write about them, especially red, but as with lots of writing, my theme evolved. Thank you to my high school teacher Mr. Pagani who gave me the writing prompt!

At sunset, nearly dusk, I slip a warm pair of wool socks onto my cold bare feet. I lace up my yellow boots with red strings. The stiff soles and sides, though confining, are familiar and comforting. They have embraced my feet on many walks at home, and through long hikes in the mountains of Arizona. This evening my boots and I are escaping the little cottage where we sat out the rain all day and are going for a walk on a nearby nature path that winds through Slovenian fields. Stepping outside, I shut out other pedestrians with my earbuds, quietly asking not to be disturbed.

I leave the cottage which is covered in vines that crawl up and over the roof. Beneath the leaves are dark red stems, like dried blood, dotted with indigo berries the size of raindrops. Wet white gravel on the driveway squishes beneath my feet as I walk past the chickens adjacent to the cottage. I smell them and then see them. 200 black and gold birds, with pink skin showing through their molting feathers, gather near the gate to greet me. They coo and cluck at me in a buzzing chorus, but I keep walking. At the end of the driveway, cheerfully marked by an egg stand, I turn left. I walk through a parking lot filled with cars and people, gathered for some discussion or presentation at the hall next to the church. The church, down the sidewalk and through a tunnel of trees, announces its holiness to the simple countryside with its grand spires and red roof, which billows against gravity into two large bubbles before coming to a point, raising an iron cross above the trees.

I step outside the wall of shrubs which protects the church and its adjoining buildings. Here the view of the landscape opens up. I look out past sheets of white and green weedy plants covering the fields to the mountains, so far away they bleed into the sky in shades of bluish gray. Frothy white fog spills out of the crevices and valleys between the mountains, as though it were pouring out of the cloudy sky and onto the countryside. The landscape, like a rich watercolor picture, is still with no movement.

The simple, though beautiful, journey to this point at the beginning of the trail makes me the most homesick- more homesick than wandering through bustling cities swarmed by people speaking all different languages, or riding trains with strangers through ancient hillsides. It is the stark contrast between the familiar and foreign that I notice the most. The sound of the gravel beneath my feet reminds me of hiking after the rain at home, but instead of desert plants, I smell the chickens and grain. I embrace the quiet solitude of nature that is universal, which I have enjoyed since I was a little kid. However, my enjoyment of the natural world is met with a sense of longing for the people who introduced me to the outdoors: my parents. I grew up going on weekend camping trips with my family and morning hikes with my dad. I remember that they are miles away and pause, reflecting on the weight of being so far from their comforting embrace. What allows me to step forward, and move on, is remembering that I carry home with me. The mountains of Arizona and the people who raised me are a part of me in every way. Now I represent them in a different and new place and carry with me the lessons and memories of home. Ahead of me lies a peaceful path, gently carving through the rural landscape. I begin my walk.