The morning after everything she went to the wild garden alone.
Not for any of the strategic reasons. Not for a conversation or a connection or any of the things the wild garden had been the location of all summer. She went because she needed to be in the honest part in the honest state — alone, present, unperforming, and she needed to feel the field from the inside of it with nobody else present, just her and the compass and the six threads and the valley and the forty miles and the permanent warmth.
She sat on the stump.
She looked at the overgrowth.
She breathed.
She felt the field.
The full version.
She had been feeling it in parts until now — feeling it in the moments of connection, feeling it in the working, feeling it in the extending. She had felt it alive and deepened and v
