Knowing

There was something about the way the Masai interacted with the land.

They knew it. Like a friend.

When we went hunting, I caught a revelatory glimpse into this knowing.

Hunting was the first time I had seen them actually run. We walked everywhere together, but there was something different, new, about the way they glided at this speed on their feet. They dart between bushes and leap over rocks, flowing like a breeze over the earth. They make use of each bend and turn, as if each bump in the soil was examined beforehand. They are so apart of the land, and the land is apart of them. They know it. They know and respect the zebras, they are a part of the zebras. And the zebras seem to understand them. The closest I ever got to the zebra while hunting- almost within throwing distance – it was watching me from the corner of its eyes. It understood. It knew what was going on. Zebra we come, we are hunting, we need food, you are our food, and although the zebras run away, they know.

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Then there was our family’s grandfather.
The grandfather had his place in the yard where he would spend all day. He would walk out of bed to the chair and sit. He only got up at dark to go back to bed.

He was also blind. But he saw in other ways, as many blind people can do.

One day, he heard a flock of birds chirping. He asked what bird it was. His grandson described the bird to him- the colors, the feathers.
It’s going to rain, he said knowingly.
That’s a nice thought, said my inner skeptic. Good luck with that one.

It rained.
For the first time in 8 months it rained.
He knew.

And it made me want to have that kind of connection, even a fraction of the knowing that they had.

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