My favorite place the living image

My favorite place the living image

I’ve always been the kind of person who falls in love with landscapes. But one landscape, imprinted deep in my earliest memories which held a place no other can reach. It isn’t drawn on a map, but engraved in my soul, like a living, breathing being. As a child, the world wasn’t made of inanimate things; everything had life for me. The hills spoke, the stars shone with purpose, the rivers whispered secrets, and the trees danced when no one was looking and I was the one to communicate with joyfully..

From the moment I could walk and ran, my tiny legs were propelled by curiosity. The world wasn’t silent but it was full of voices only I could hear. And so, I fell in love with my landscape before I even knew the word for it.

At night, I’d gazed up at the dark sky, where one massive, glowing star was surrounded by countless tiny companions. To my child's mind, they were families. The bright one was the father, while the little ones were the children, and all of them had homes lit with heavenly candles. I once asked my family why we couldn’t have as many candles as the families high up there in the sky.

As I explored more, I met rivers, hills, mountains, and forests. They weren’t "things" to me. They were friends. I remember yelling into a gorge and waiting for it to reply. And when it did, echoing my own words back, I’d enjoyed and convinced myself that it was speaking my language.

But it wasn’t just the landscapes; I also became captivated with animals. Our sheep, goats, cows, and donkeys were more than livestock; they were characters in a living drama. In the fading light of dusk, when herds returned home, I could hear the mothers calling out with urgency and affection. The little ones answered eagerly. I translated their cries into words:

"I’m coming with my breasts full of milk," said the mothers. "I’ve been crying, I missed you so much," the babies’ replied. One evening, I asked my older brother where the animals spent their days. His eyes lit up as he described a place that sounded like paradise later in my imagination.

“There’s a field so wide, the grasses grow taller than your knees. A river runs through it, and there are springs with water so clear you can see the bottom. That’s where we play games, racing like horses, riding donkeys, even sheep for the smaller kids. “I was fascinated. The way his voice rose and fell, the gestures he used to paint the scenes, I gulped it in like it was milk and honey. That night, I dreamed of it over and over. I woke up again and again; terrified that the shepherds would leave before I wake up.

Before the sun rose, I was up. I tiptoed outside to see the sky turning from black to blue and golden rays peeping over the hills. I rushed back and shook my brother. I begged my sisters to milk the cows quickly. Everything had to be ready. I had to go .But when the time came, no one would let me. “You’re too small,” they said. "Next time," my brother promised. But I couldn’t bear the thought of being left behind. I cried, begged, even threw myself to the ground.

One of my sisters held my hand tightly, trying to pull me home. I pretended to give up, watching with disappointed eyes, waiting for the perfect moment. Then I broke free. I ran and escaping from her. I ran as if the whole world was at stake. My lungs burned, my legs sored, but I didn’t stop. The shepherds were far ahead. The dust from their feet had already being settling. But I caught up. I reached them getting breathless.

And I didn’t look back. The herds marched in a majestic procession. Cows, oxen, sheep, goats, donkeys, horses, and ponies. It was like a royal band moving to a special ceremony. As we left the village, the world opened up. The sky no longer sat on the rooftops but stretched wide. The horizon curled around the earth, where the sky and land kissed.

I asked endless questions: "What’s that hill called? What’s beyond that forest? Why does the river glitter like that?" My brother smiled, proudly. He began answering as best as he could, and I listened, absorbing every word amusingly. Finally, we reached the wide field just as he had described. But no words could have prepared me for the sight. The animals spread out like spilled paint on a green canvas. Hills stood like sleeping giants on the edges. The river twisted like a silver ribbon. I tried to run across the whole field, but I quickly collapsed, breathless.

Instead, I stood still and watched. My eyes became wings, fluttering across the scenery. I gulped it all in and then came the games. The older kids raced, hooves thundering beside bare feet. Smaller children rode sheep, laughter echoing through the hills. I tried to keep up, laughing, falling, and getting up again. I was no longer an outsider soon I was one of them.

Rapidly I felt thirsty. My brother led me to a secret spot shaded by tall trees. We pushed through the bushes and there it was: a spring, bubbling crystal clear water straight from beneath a stony rock. My mouth opened in awe. He dipped his palms into the water and brought it to my lips. I drank. It was cold, sweet, and pure. Each sip felt like magic entering my body.

As I stood there, dripping and grinning, I looked at my brother. He wasn’t just a storyteller. He was a gatekeeper to a kingdom I never knew existed. From that day on, I was never the same. I had crossed from the small, sheltered world of home into the vast, thrilling vastness of nature. I had become a wanderer, a listener, a seeker of wonders.

That landscape, the one drawn not with ink, but with memory and emotion is still my favorite place in the world. A place where stars are families, animals speak, and the earth whispers secrets to those who dare to run after them. And I will always be that child, running as fast as his little legs can carry him, toward the wide field of wonders, my favorite place in the world.