View of Villarica

I’ve been trying to describe Samadhi to my friends for a few days now. People always ask for the details. But it’s a complicated thing to describe a new place. Somewhere you’ve never been before. Don’t speak the language. Don’t know anyone.

What are you doing.

It’s not the doing of a thing that I remember. It’s not that I went horse riding one day that makes me smile all of a sudden when I’m on the bus to work in my home city as the gunmetal gray of the skyscrapers whips the strung white clouds.

Instead, I see Villarica. Dark and distant it sits as birds take flight in odd turning patterns. Phillippe takes his horse in a canter framed by the sun burning out its yellow energy at the end of the day. The birds fall back on themselves in a receding tide motion. My horse, rocking side to side in the long grass, lifts its head and in the brown of the eye I can see a black raindrop sat still. A smell comes in the air. Brisk and green it is as it stretches out and over the fields and pastures. It comes with a cold strength, wild in the air. It comes from the South. From Villarica. You can see it unmoving and silent in the weight of the black stone earth that has held the true-red flames of long ago eruptions. It peaks in a celebration of lost sunlight almost as if saying, look here, this is important.

Jack WoodmanComment