It is okay to be tired, she says. It is okay to be weary, to feel the broken skin and the aching bones, it is okay to cry. Cry, my sister, cry, my brother, she says, so close I can feel her breath. Cry for the dead, cry for your loss, cry for the unlived dreams and the stinging defeat at your fingertips. Cry, now, for every time you gave up, for every time the mountain grew too big and you did not have what you thought it took. Cry your silent tears for rotting flesh and the time you lost. Cry for your pride, cry for your shame, cry for biting inadequacy and chastening unworthyness. And cry, cry for the unbearable distance to everything you hold dear. It is okay, she says, while she carefully takes my hand in hers. She will never let go, and yet, her hand, so soft, so familiar. It is okay, she says. It is okay.
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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