I opened to the earth that was alive, sacred because it was made sacred, said let there be land that is waiting for my voice, for my morning footsteps across the lawn, each one a prayer to the grandmother in the east. The trees, soil, and fallen leaves replied
How can you learn to be a steward of the earth, of the garden, and sing to the seedlings, and bleed on the new sprouts, harvest the fruit and the vines, swing yourself from low hanging branches, perform blessings and ceremonies of gratitude if you are now yet the steward of your own precious landscape?
If you do not daily uncover or dig into the hardness around your own heart, if you do not sing or pray for the aliveness and the waking up of your own flesh, if you do not tend to the garden of your own mundane and magical needs: freshwater, dappled sunlight, vitamin hills, proper articulation of your pelvis and femur, cultivation of the rug you sit on, then listen.
Listen, you cannot feel every pebble, every tree root, every stepping stone under your feet and find balance nor stability in the spine, or expect any damn beautiful thing to last or be gracefully mourned, if you are still clutching, if you still run from pain although your knees are rubbing together like gravel.
And when you taste trauma, long forgotten, how it spirals out from your center and you want to keep pressing onward through the wall of this room, what scared voice is it that says, so alone, I know you want to leave, but please, stay with me?