Perhaps the hedgerows have it after all. When I was nine, I was jealous that my friends knew God and I didn’t. I told them I would find him in a hedgerow. They laughed, but I persisted. Some nights, I prayed to my bedroom ceiling by the apocalypse orange of a suburban streetlight. Nothing. But summer days spent flat on grass, tracing the arc of the sky with my hand, feeling the entire rock of the earth bracing my spine, or afternoons following root to stem to leaf and flower, watching my shadow dance on every open page, warm evenings spent staring at stars millennia of light dappling my retina. . . Those were the days of knowing.
Daniel Mountain (@danmtn) is a writer and teacher based in Cheltenham Spa.