If Mother Earth was a voice in your head, what would she say? If she asked you to pass it on, to express it, dance it, sing it, write it, be it, what would you do? Could you find the trust, the hushed, loving trust that you know is there? Behind what you've been told. Beyond what you believe. But at the same time so close, so intimate, that once you find it, you will know it was always there.
You are safe, she says. You can rest. You can stop now, she says. Take a breath. And another. You can feel your body. Feel your legs and your feet, your thighs and your hips, your back, your shoulders and your neck, your chest and your heart, your head and your face. You can rest now, she say. You are safe. You can feel your surroundings, the air you breathe, the soft sounds, the ground below your feet. Can you smell anything? Taste? You can rest now. Take a breath. And another. You are safe, she says.
You are here, she says. She trusts you, too, you know? To her, you are so close, so intimate, that once you rest, she will know you were always here. Take a breath, she says. And another. Feel your body. Feel where your body meets the world. You can rest now. There you are, she says. There you are.
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/Felipe Gabaldón