I turned to the moon one night. Told him I would listen. Told him I was ready to wait. She didn't let me. Write to Mother Earth, she said. Write to Mother Earth.
And so I open my body, my heart and my mind, as if the three were ever separate, to the sentient mother, my home, my muse. And open I must, for should I ever write like the moon asks, then the earth must also write through me.
A nearly forgotten language, a way of listening I merely know. But like every other human being walking this earth, I, too, am a carrier. I, too, am a child of the same Mother, and I, too, am equally responsible.
My longing is to come closer to home. To feel it beneath my naked feet, to tear down every fake wall I've come to build. My dream is for everyone to be home. But I will not try and convince you.
What I will do is to set out on a journey. Like with all journeys, I can not know where this one will take me. My hope, however, and what I set out to do, is to get closer to home. Closer to the earth. Perhaps that will also bring me closer to you. And to myself. As if the three of us were ever separate.
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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