One of my sons wanted to know what the horizon is. We were out on the sea in a small boat, with waves small enough for me to feel safe, yet big enough for him to feel really shaky. Our first cod was bleeding out in a bucket. My boy sitting closer to me than usual, while I handled the fishing rod. The horizon. I told him it's where heaven and earth meet. The earth is round and all that, sure, but most importantly, it's where heaven and earth meet. He looked at me and I looked at him and I could suddenly see the horizon in him, or him in it, as if the elements that make up my son were visible for a second, the sacred, passionate act of love that once was the seed for what I think of as him, the coming together of light and dark, of strength and vulnerability, of magic and logic. My son is my ultimate proof for heaven and earth coming together, something so ungraspably beautiful that I am lucky even to say I was there. But I was. And he was. And is. And always will be. Because the earth is round and as we move, the horizon moves with us. And within us.
Out on the sea in a small boat. We caught one more cod. Then we went home, prepared the fish, fried it with olive oil and garlic and shared a great meal right here, at the place where heaven and earth meet.
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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