There's something about thoughts. I write for the earth. To the earth. I try to listen, to tune in. It's a physical thing. An emotional thing. A spiritual thing.
A horse can be explained in so many ways. There are atoms and molecules. Carbon and stuff. A horse has hair, longer on some places of its body, while shorter on others. It has different organs, like lungs and a beating heart. Horses have a whole range of purposes when looked at with the human eye, it can carry out many a useful task and be a great companion for cowboys and indians alike, although I like to think that being a horse is purpose enough. I'm quite sure the horse would agree.
Now, the thing is, as far as I know, a human being can never actually be a horse. What we can do, however, is ride one. We can get up on a horse and we can ride on it. Surely, there are many books discussing how to best ride a horse. Many people, absurdly enough, even make their living out of the theoretical comparisement and analysis of best possible horse riding practices.
The question is: Have you ever taken a horseback ride? Have you ever leaned into the intense experience, have you ever had the feeling that the horse and you became nothing but one single movement? That both of you depended on the other for the moment to be complete, that the idea you once had of riding doesn't reach the feeling inside of you when you ride, not even to the saddle?
Like with everything, riding a horse can be a technical, theoretical and mechanical procedure, a dry, static description of life. Or, like with everything, it can really be a ride.
When I give room and attention to my thoughts, I think of the steep cliff we humans are approaching with an increasingly high speed. I think of the despair of the many, while the few seem so attached to their substitutes for love and equally blind to the consequences. I think of global warming and political egos, of warmongering and terror. I think of how strikingly different life on this planet may be, even in my lifetime, if not to say my children's.
I think and I think and I think, and I start to feel desperate. Afraid. Sad. I feel grief and sorrow. And I believe those feelings have their place, in life and in this time. They're highly needed and I'm not saying that they are wrong.
What I am saying is that they arise from my thoughts, and if I'm not aware, I take them for granted as the truth.
Then I take my shoes off. My socks, too. I open the door and I walk outside. The grass is wet and cold, the dandelions have closed up for the evening. Quietly, I start to listen. I allow the monotone whisper from the city to be as it is while I turn to nature. I thank the apple tree for its beautiful flowers. The blackbird for its beautiful song. I thank the ground for holding me and the air for its supporting presence. I immediately feel how loved I am. How much a part of nature I am. How much I am needed, here, for the moment to be complete. I do not open up, I am opened.
It does seem like we're in quite some trouble, we humans. We're in the middle of a war, pretty much. And I dare to say that most of the war is taking place inside of our own heads. It's a war of thoughts, it's quite brutal and what we think we need to come up with is better solutions. But there is no solution. How do you solve a horse? There is no solution.
What is here is what always has been here. It is not outside of us, it cannot be attained nor acquired. It is a part of us and we're a part of it. And it can be listened to. Tuned in to. It's a phsyical thing. An emotional thing. A spiritual thing. Its wisdom is endless, its essence timeless and its beauty boundless. And it is always here for you. All it needs is simply for you to take your shoes off. Your socks, too. Then you open your door and let your feet guide you out, out to the wet, cold grass.
This is a calling to slow down and listen. To take a deep breath and explore our personal connection with Mother Earth. The feminine and masculine, the beautiful and dirty, the real, the messy, the sacred. Once it was natural. Today it feels crucial.
For the next 100 Days I will write a book to the Earth. For the Earth. With the Earth. The book, and the journey, is also to you. For you. And with you. Together, we are everything.
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(Photo: Birgitta Eva Hollander)