This day. It leaves me ripped open. I smile and I laugh and I enjoy the easy life with friends and family. My kids are happy. The sun is shining. We're celebrating the country we live in, my home, my roots. And I feel like a prostitute. I feel torn and used and delusional, I feel disgusted and angry and really, really sad.
It's a confusing day. So many traditions, so many expectations, so much fun! It seems like everybody loves it but me. My body doesn't know where to put itself. Surrounded by festivities, and an inside flooded by darkness.
In a way, I'm just a child. If you're going this way, I'm going that way. Stubborn and unruIy. I get so nauseous when the masses agree. What do we agree upon? What are we celebrating? Freedom?
This is where I start crying. I cry for my suffering friends. The mountain tops, the wolves, the bluefin tuna. I cry for toxic rivers and depleted soil. For every drop of pesticide reaching the ground. I cry for my brothers and sisters all around this beautiful planet, dear members of my beloved family, who must face endless amounts of utterly unnecessary suffering.
And I cry for freedom. Grateful for the freedom we have, I cry out for more. It's like we talk about freedom without never having really tasted it. An ever increasing part of me feels the absence of freedom until freedom is everywhere to be found. Until every living entity on this planet, every ecosystem and every emotion, every child and every cloud, when it reaches the end of its cycle, says yes, I have lived. I have blossomed. I have thrived. I have loved.
Freedom, my soul cries out, is not the absence of war. To really be free is when every fibre of reality can experience the total freedom of being what it is. So simple. So difficult. No compromise. I am what I am. You are what you are.
This day. I smile and I laugh, but I feel like crying. I cry. Still, in some bizarre way, I do love this piece of land that we call our country. I love the naive persistence of spring, the soothing summer, the explosive fall. In brief moments of bewilderment I even love the winter. I turn to the land, I talk with it and I learn from it. My children are born here. I am born here. All of my family has lived here for generations and generations.
In the end, what is left? What do I do? I don't know. So I turn to the one who does. In my garden, some bright green shoots of lovage are waiting for my hands to guide them down in the ground. The word lovage comes from love-ache. My parents gave it to me. The birds are singing. The soil is dark and damp. What more is there to say.
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: Flickr/CC/Åsen Museum og Historielag)