It is impossible to move closer without getting touched. What is a touch? The hair on my hand melting and curling up. The smell of burnt meat.
I won't get through this unmarked. Simply sitting in the grass, observing hundreds of dandelions on my lawn and the few, blessed bees drinking from between their legs, I am brought to tears from their sheer presence. How can I possibly go through with this? How can I survive this openness into abysmal separation? It feels like it's on my shoulders, that my fellow mankind's fatal misunderstandings are moving through my body for me to carry it, carry it, no wait, to sense it.
To sense it. To feel it. Embody it. To sit with it. I am here to sit with it. My whole life, for this one moment with the bees.
This is what the moon told me, when we first got together: I'll help you, he said. I'm here for you, she said. I love you, it said.
So I'll stay. Sit. Breathe. Trust my body, my larger body. The communion between us. Nature's ways of filling up and letting go. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
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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