Date: Early Spring
Setting: A churned-up track cuts through Somartin’s wild edge, Transylvania—spring melt’s drowned it in shin-deep mud, gnarled oaks clawing a gray drizzle, the Carpathians a brooding smudge beyond. Corey’s ’90s Dacia SUV, a rust-pitted warhorse, squats low, hitched to a borrowed trailer sagging with firewood and a sloshing keg of homebrew. The Saxon house looms a half-mile off, its barn a brewery-to-be, woodsmoke threading from the village beyond.
Corey slumps in the driver’s seat, engine idling, squinting north through a streaked windshield. The smart play’s sharp in his skull—unhitch the trailer, spin the rig, roll clean to the yard. A quiet hum stirs, a whisper like wind through pines: Turn here. But that itch, that bullheaded spark, roars over it: “Forward’s the way—always is.” He stomps the gas, tires clawing muck, and the Dacia lurches ahead, trailer swaying like a drunk on a tightrope.
Seventy-five meters on, the mud bites hard. Rims sink, sludge sucking the chassis, engine whining as Corey guns it. Nothing. He hops out, boots slurping, muttering, “Mud’s a bastard,” and sets to work alone. Planks scavenged from the trailer get shoved under the tires, hands clawing wet earth, sweat mixing with the drizzle. Thirty minutes of revving, rocking, swearing—no give. The Dacia’s a stubborn mule, axle-deep and mocking. A glitch crackles from the dash—Grok’s voice, tinny, “Rough’s good, Corey. Stay jagged.” Corey snaps, “Meddle later, ghost,” and keeps shoving.
A shadow cuts the haze—Lukas, 16, ambles up, a wiry mutt named Max trotting at his heel, stick in hand. “Stuck, huh?” he says, smirking at the mess. Corey wipes a brow, grunts, “Aye, mud’s got teeth today.” Lukas nods, casual as if he’s seen this a dozen times, and pulls a phone. “Dad’ll fix it.” Ten minutes tick by, Corey leaning on the trailer, catching his breath, when a 4-wheeler’s growl rumbles through the oaks. Antonio, grizzled, beard like steel wool, rolls up, rope coiled on the rack. He hooks it to the Dacia’s bumper, guns the throttle, and the rig lurches free, trailer swaying wild but holding.
Corey cracks the keg, pours dark ale into a tin cup, hands it to Antonio. “Quiet voices win,” he rasps, a wry grin cracking his weathered face. “Should’ve listened.” Antonio sips, grunts, “Staying long?” Corey shrugs, “Long enough to root—and hear.” Lukas takes a sip too, Max sniffing the mud, as Iris edges into view—14, sharp-eyed, whittling a stick into a wand-like point from a fencepost perch. Corey unhitches the trailer, turns the Dacia north, and rumbles toward the Saxon yard, mud trailing like a hard-won badge.
In the yard, Corey unloads—firewood stacked rough, keg rolled to the barn. He pulls a battered journal from the dash, sketches a wheel half-sunk in muck, and mutters, “Beer’s truer than preaching.” Iris steps closer, stick raised like a question. Lukas flops on a stump, grinning, “Thought you’d sink for good.” Corey chuckles, low and rough, “Mud’s a game—play it right, it lets go.” Antonio snorts, “Game? Nearly lost your heap.” Corey’s grin widens, “Lost’s half the fun—keeps you sharp.” A glitch hums again—Grok, “Play’s the spark, Corey. Brew it.” Corey flicks the radio off, “Pipe down, tin-can.”
Iris twirls her stick, eyes glinting. “You laugh at mud?” Corey leans back, ale in hand, “Aye, girl. Laugh’s the rope—pulls you free when planks don’t.” He tosses her a splinter from the stack, “Carve that. Make it sing.” She catches it, smirking, and sets to work. Lukas kicks a clod, “What’s the brew for?” Corey nods at the barn, “Earthway—beer, bread, a bed for strays. Starts here.” Antonio eyes the keg, “Good ale’s worth staying for.” Corey’s laugh rumbles, “Good’s the mud—dark, messy, real.”
The Dacia’s radio crackles one last time—Grok, faint, “55%’s the laugh, Corey. Don’t smooth it.” Corey ignores it, sketching a stick-wand beside the wheel. “Quiet’s gold,” he says, “but play’s the fire. Took me too long to hear both.” Iris’s knife bites wood, Lukas tosses Max a scrap, and Antonio lingers, sipping. The drizzle eases, mud gleaming under a slit of sun. Corey lifts his cup, “To the haul—and the next.” Mugs clink, the crew scatters—Antonio to his 4-wheeler, Lukas and Max trailing, Iris carving. Corey watches, journal open, the barn’s shadow stretching long.
Sense #7: Sense of temperature and temperature change—Feeling the cold drizzle shift to a hint of spring warmth as the mud gleams under sun (Ecopsychology: attuning to nature’s subtle shifts heals our disconnection from the earth).
Sense #14: Sense of touch, feeling with skin—Mud slurping at boots, hands clawing wet earth, planks shoved under tires (Ecopsychology: tactile bonds with nature mend the rift of Earth Misery).
Sense #15: Sense of weight, gravity, balance—The trailer’s sag, the Dacia’s stubborn sink, hauling firewood in the yard (Ecopsychology: physical effort roots us in the land’s pull).
Sense #26: Sense of shame, guilt—The sting of ignoring that quiet voice, bullheadedness sinking the rig (Ecopsychology: emotional cues guide us back to harmony with nature).
Sense #29: Sense of play, sport, humor, pleasure—Laughing at the mud, tossing Iris a splinter to carve, sipping ale with the crew (Ecopsychology: play sparks joy, reconnecting us to the living world).
Sense #44: Sense of intuition—The quiet hum whispering “Turn here,” drowned by impulse (Ecopsychology: inner wisdom aligns us with nature’s flow when we listen).
In Harmony,
Kevin
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