Her(e)

We share experiences through the soles of our feet, the capacity of our lungs and the scope of the world that spreads before us. We climb and descend together, plant our feet on stable rock, following each other across streams. We rest in shadows to stay cool, sunlight to stay warm and in each other’s presence to stay safe. Our efforts rise and fall at similar times as our bodies recover and prepare for the next steps. We view the landscape ahead with an intuitive awareness, although we are seeking entirely different information from the contents. While Dave is constantly comparing where we are relative to the world around us, I am watching a dog for any indication that what lies ahead may be destroyed by explosion.

The relationship between a dog handler and a navigator is earned through repetition. Dave and I honed ourselves to function as near to a single unit as may be possible. It didn’t come easily. My early efforts to illicit reassurance, to query his knowledge, created uncomfortable friction. Now, I can watch the birds dance in the trees, letting my fingers move yarn over needles, as Dave calculates the altitude, grade, wind, clouds, temperature, time of day, direction of travel and the pace with which we will move forward.

We’re distributing humanitarian aid in the form of radios, food and medicine in an effort to win over the people who live here. My role is to keep our foot patrol safe from roadside bombs. Tucked against the ballistic plates in my body armor, knitting needles and yarn have the potential to become shrapnel. This is a calculated risk, however, as these tools are also reason for generous meetings between people whose lives have randomly intersected.

The repetitive movement, stitch after stitch, is an echo of my life here in Afghanistan, step after step after step. A meditation of sorts, the yarn quietly becomes a child’s sweater or pair of socks or hat. These gifts find themselves in the hands of women in the villages we pass; their eyes glance at me, holding visible surprise to see me, a female, out on patrol. We don’t speak the same language, but we find ways to share a small bit of ourselves: I’m invited to learn to embroider in one village and to cook in another, I’m gifted a string of beads in a third, remnants of the Russian War before this one, the American War. My team makes efforts to be lenient, giving me brief periods of time to cherish connection with smiling children as I slip a cap on their head or mittens over their hands.

*****

We share experiences through our souls, through the capacity of our hearts, through our memories. I step out of my vehicle at aptly named Round Mountain Creamery and am acknowledged by a single goat in an enclosure. Her eyes meet mine, curious to see whether I will approach and, if so, what I might bring to her. This place is familiar. The sounds, smells and terrain tug at my memory, reminding me of other continents, of other times, of other goats on other mountains. A paid internship brought me here and some extra money would be nice, but it only partially explains my decision. I need time in this parallel place to navigate my past, to make peace with our withdrawal from a conflict in a far off land. I seek to learn more about these animals that lend themselves to the production of fiber that will become yarn. I know that my hands will help me heal, that I will have an opportunity to spin yarn from the soft undercoats of the goats come Spring and that yarn will become a scarf or, really, a gesture of reconciliation. Cresting over a nearby hill, shepherding a small flock is the farm manager. I have met him before, in my parallel life, and I am certain that this is home.