a snail burial

yesterday I attended a snail burial

he (or she, let’s say he) had a good life

he grew up in Sweden

from French ancestors

brought in by monks in the 12th century

so they could eat something tasty on their fasting days

they didn’t consider them meat

he spent a week in a gallery

in the small town where he was born

performing together with 107 other snails

from there he travelled on a train up north

to join me and 14 of his companions

researching the pioneer life in the Swedish forest

he came back with me to Amsterdam

they were only four by then,

i left 10 in the woods and lost 1

somewhere somehow

i had planned to return them to where their grandparent’s grandparent’s grandparent’s grandparent’s were born, in the North of France, drop them off on my long walk from Amsterdam to the Nomadic Village 2013 in the south of France but it was too complicated to take them

so they spent time in Amsterdam and in Speuld, in the countryside

sleeping for months in winter

but since i wasn’t there most of the time and somebody else was taking care of them

and not planning to settle down somewhere, where they would enjoy themselves

it was time to let them go

they came with me on the train again

they saw Berlin, München, Slovenia

they became part of the Nomadic Village

and have been part of my life, teaching me about slowness and grace

he had a quick death

he didn’t suffer

he was crushed under the Captain’s foot

and while I sat on the church wall next to the Nomadic Village shortly after, seeing the first star appear and the clouds closing in on the mountains, feeling sad

the church bells started ringing, 21.10, an odd moment for church bells

maybe the snail already knew

maybe he was the one that never joined the others in their love making

when I would let them wander during the day

and no, he didn’t have a name

he was just a snail