I met a man in deep midwinter who told me his first sexual experience was falling deep into mud resulting in orgasm. I was talking about the relationship with Land as the most visceral, profound and erotic a relationship we can have. After many years of being in love with the complex, beautiful, often difficult relationship between humans, I have realised that to love the land is the most pure form of loving.
There is the changing weather, which can alter the relationship, or remind us that it is not always an easy conversation. There is the staring out to sea, the contemplation of colour, mood, air, ground, waves or horizon. The sensual excitement of each subtle change in energy at each turning of a corner. The newness, or re-acquaintance with a known love of a land revisited. To love the land is a life-long affair. It is to see a mountain and its changing form, texture, colour, presence becomes so overwhelming in its enchantment. There is the open road and the exhilaration of change. The deliberate stopping to contemplate or commune with a vista or to feel the vastness, or behold a particular tree or abandoned building.
There is also the phenomenon of the flaneur. The city wanderer who is walking the urban land and mapping the psychogeography. Within this there is a wandering about, a seeing and being seen.
The nature wanderer is a quieter lover. As a mother who gives birth is left viscerally, psychologically and somatically altered, after this experience, no relationship is ever the same. I began my relationship with land after birthing. I had glimpsed the relationship many times before when stopping the car deep in the American desert and learning about warm winds, nothingness and stillness or on a warm rock in Crete looking out to sea. After the recovery of birth the world was altered. Nature was a giving back to myself. The gift of land. The gift of myself and of love.