Well, he wasn’t exactly in the grass, but would’ve been at some stage
before my discovery. Two years ago around this time of year, as the weather
cooled and the daily ritual of lighting the fire began, I delved into the wood
heap. What I brought out made me thankful we hadn’t had a cold snap in the
middle of the warmer months, which can sometimes happen here, requiring me to
dip into the firewood earlier than usual.
Wrapped around a smooth log was the shed skin of a snake. I imagined it coiling
and recoiling, manoeuvring itself between the logs until it was free of its
burden, and wondered how long it might have taken up residence in the cosy
confines of the wood pile before moving on to find food or an even better spot
to conceal itself.
As much as snakes can strike fear into the hardiest of souls, there is
something incredibly beautiful about snake skin. Tissue paper fine, with a
subtle translucence. The log has sat on a shelf for two years, but with the skin’s
colour now well faded, it finally reached its final resting place in the fire.
What a treat, to be able to peel off your outer layer, discard the dead
cells and move on feeling refreshed, ready to take on the world again with
renewed vigour. Imagine the possibilities were we able to do the same. An annual
cleaning out of the dead matter that slows us down, holds us back. To be able
to look back at what we’ve discarded, and wonder why on earth we hung on to it
for so long.
Friction, peeling off
shedding one’s outer layer
to begin afresh
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