My body is chilled but my soul is warm as I sit, legs pulled into my chest, around the fire. My legs ache from the unforgiving twelve hour days of manual labour beneath the hot African sun, and I extend them gratefully to the gentle flames. The night air, bitingly cold in contrast to the fiery heat of the afternoon sun, tickles the tip of my nose. The smoky warmth cracks and pops as it soothes the soles of my feet and travels generously up my legs before releasing into my core. My tired muscles relax as I breathe in the scent of cold dirt and scorched grass.

I pull my shawl around my head so that the world is muffled a little, and lie back onto the firm earth.  I close my eyes and breathe, the fresh air cleaning my lungs as it circulates. Although the flames still dance at my feet, the night is dominated by a comforting darkness. Even with my eyes closed, I see the flat, free land that stretches before me. I see the hills in the distance, draped into a staircase leading to the next community. I see the tiny huts in the village with their clay walls, the thin cracks that run through their surface like delicate smile lines. In my mind, I walk through one of those huts. My hair is lightly tousled as it catches on the low ceiling, and my hands brush smoothly against the uneven surface of the clay as I glide them along. The faint dust in the air settles onto my tongue, warm and gritty. I turn the corner and duck as the ceiling sinks lower, forcing even my short stature to bend slightly at my neck. The dusty air carries the smell of firewood, and with it the scent of sooty sweat. The hut is no larger than my room back in Canada, yet like my small room, I am comforted by the familiar, soothing atmosphere of home.

As I exit the humble hut, rays of sunshine tingle my cheeks as if taunting me with a potential sunburn. The air outside of the hut is crisply warm. I make my way down the staircase hills out of the community and begin to walk along the extensive grass plain that leads to my camp in the neighbouring community. I breathe deeply as I walk, once again cleaning my lungs with the fresh air and purifying my body as I inhale. The dry grass beneath my feet stretches for miles in each direction, only interrupted by crooked trees that sprout from the dry ground like glistening tulips after a spring rainfall. Around me is a sky that seems to paint every angle in a soft, blue complexion. As usual, there are no clouds in the sky today, allowing the Kenyan sun to shine in full force. With the sun beating down, the crunchy grass beneath my feet, and the pure air in my lungs, I am aware of the overwhelming space that surrounds me. I am a tiny Canadian walking through an endless field in this beautiful African country, where compassion is common sense and kindness is a religion. I am so wonderfully out of place, yet so happily at home. Out in this field, completely alone except for the miles that surround me, I feel more alive than I could ever feel back at home. I look up at the cloudless sky and make a silent vow to journey here again. With the promise of returning to this land resting peacefully in my heart, my shoulders relax and I focus on the steady beat of my footsteps.

I slowly fade back to reality and feel the fire once again, soft and warm on my feet. My eye lids flutter open and I tilt my head back in awe. Thousands of tiny silver specks twinkle like Christmas lights against the deep, charcoal sky. I reach out my arm and extend my thumb, covering a cluster of the silver specks as I do so. With the warmth of the fire at my feet and my thumb nearly touching the stars, the world feels a little smaller.