Something deeply satisfying stirred my moleheart a fortnight ago when I went through the ritual of winding the clocks back an hour. I would have long cosy evenings again. And instead of having to cajole myself into waling in the pitch dark, for a little while at least I would be leaping out of bed for the sheer joy of experiencing that wonderful transition from night to day.
Alas, that evening I may have gone to bed a mole but the next morning I woke up a sloth.
At first I rather enjoyed my slothfulness. Lying snuggled in my nest, dozing on and off, dreams ebbing and flowing into my consciousness. The trouble was that the slothfulness clung to me as morning moved into day. Without my early walk my paws began to drag. My sleep-dulled eyes peered at the papers on my desk without comprehension. By noon all I could think about was how lovely it would be to be nestled back under my doona. Had I been more alert, I might have been surprised, or even alarmed, at how quickly I assimilated slothful attributes, how soon and thoroughly my molishness retreated. Days turned into weeks.
Now, I have nothing against sloths. They are beautiful creatures with gentle natures. They might on first acquaintance even appear to be a deal more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than moles. But something began to niggle. Sloths are not very grounded. In fact, I could hardly have chosen a less earthbound body to morph myself into. Nor are they very curious.
The fact is, I began to miss being a mole.
But could I remember how to gather my moleparts back? Could I even remember what my moleparts were? It was then I remembered the rather shabby shamanic text that Uncle Ratty had picked up on one of his voyages. I managed to summon just sufficient molish energy to rummage for it in the box room. And although I reverted to armchair slothfulness I rallied enough molish perseverance to delve into the secrets of Totem Mole, Guide to the Underworld.
Piece by piece, I gathered myself together: my paws that tunnel down into unknown territory; my snout that sniffs for rich meanings hidden in those depths; my pelt that feels every nuance, and tries, though does not always succeed, to trust those feelings; and my moley curiosity that ponders and ponders until revelations come and can be brought to the surface to share with fellow creatures.
And then there was my love of the earth and fresh air. Ah yes.
These last three days I have woken to a slither of moon in an indigo sky. My snout has twitched, my paws have touched the earth before my mind has even engaged. By dawn I have reached the summit.
I have been reconstituted. My molehood has been reclaimed!