Silent, silent, you can hear the rythm. A distant call at first, reaching out through millions of roots, as were they veins, your veins, parts of your boundless self. Silent, silent, a circle seeks to you. Wanting to be drawn by your hips and felt by the air around you. Slowly, you slip into an awaiting dance, waiting no more because you trust, you trust the movement that you always carried, you trust that you don't know and you know that it knows, you know it will guide you, you know it will hold you and move you and you know it was always there, for it was you and you were it and now you're here. Closer, closer, you think, before the movement comes rising through your feet from below, and everything you are is below meets above and soft meets hard and everything you once knew is a flooded harbor while you, you are out in the storm. The wild waves and the wind, the whipping drops of rain and the crusty salt. You are the eye of the hurricane and the great, great sky. You are the world moving through your knowing body, you are the rythm. The rythm, the rythm, the rythm. Closer and closer. You open your eyes and you trust and you draw, you slip and you smile and you dance and you cry. The rythm, the rythm. Wanting to be drawn, wanting you to slip. And you open your eyes and you trust and you move. The rythm, the rythm.
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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