It was a memory I didn't think I had. The sweetness, the fresh mesmeric crunch. How the carrot feels like in your hand when you rub off most of the soil, without a worry for the rest, the clean and healthy dirt that seems only right between my teeth. My boys could pull them up, and with a triumphant scream they ran around the garden with handfulls of orange gold held high above their heads. It brought me back to a time when I was the one running. I never liked the work that much, or at least that's the story I've kept telling myself, but more and more I surrender to how much I love it today. It's still hard work to like the work because, you know, there's so much distance to cover. That's the price for being human these days, I guess. Being numb is comfortable and a return to nature requires a motion going through and beyond what you think you know. I don't know. I really don't know. But I trust the carrot. The laughing children. The awakened senses and the memory I once again have.
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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