Life is so fragile. I look at my two little boys, how they play and grow and how easefully they sleep. Sometimes, when I am alone at home, I go into one of their rooms and my heart just breaks. I look at their beds, their stuffed animals and their toy cars, most of them without tires because they seem to disappear somehow, and my whole body just gives in, all my defences vanish into thin air and I sink down on the floor, sobbing so hard I can barely breathe. The thin veil between life and death, the complete lack of control I really have, the opportunity we humans have to be broken open. I love them so painfully, ridiculously much, I love them as I squeeze a corner of the road rug between my shaking fingers and lament my utter helplessness, I love them as was it the only thing I know and ever knew. Life is so fragile. Eternally significant. Everlasting and unbreakable. And so, so fragile. I look at my two little boys, how they blissfully stretch their beings, every day. I can loose everything and there is nothing I can loose. This is the heaven I am in, this is what I trust. The beautiful fragility, the ever expanding hearts.
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: Birgitta Eva Hollander)