I am a round patch of dirt, a portion of Mother Earth. And I will not quit. And I cannot be contained.
Every measurable portion of me is a microcosm of Her. And She is a metaphor of the Universe. And He, the Universe, is a personification of the Love of Creator. And that is the only pure force there is. All of us, patch, planet, universe and Creator, are far less separate than together. We are all One. The labels are merely for man.
I have been here a very long time ago and have taken many forms. I started as molten rock before I came to the surface of the earth, when many creatures now extinct still roamed these lands. I was broken apart by time, which came to me in forms such as ice, wind, rain, snow and the heat of the sun. A great bull elk stepped upon me one day and hastened the process of my becoming soil. Eventually wildflowers took root upon me and those gentle tendrils, tickling my heart, broke me further apart. During one wet night, a child shaman on his way to heal a relative left a footprint in me. He is gone, as are his people, but his toes and gentle arching soul will always be with me.
For season after season, I grew wildflowers. We became the same organism in many ways. I fed them and they nourished me. We were both fed by heat and energy from the great sun, and watered by the servants of the sun, the cloud people. We, the flowers and I, watched lightning storms in wonder and deep awe.
After many thousands of years, great noises were heard. These were made by a new people. The people went unreasonably fast. Not like mice or the cat. I’m not talking about speed, necessarily. I mean they went faster than they needed to. They did this all the time. I had never seen humans do that before, except children. But these were not children, for they held none of the children’s joy.
I, a patch of dirt, became a packed trail. I was hardened. It was harder for me to breathe. My flowers, terrified, dropped seeds as their worlds collapsed. During a great storm, I opened myself and took some of the seeds inside myself to protect them - and to keep me company. We held each other as a great change took place in the land. We lived that way for some years. From time to time one of the seeds would sprout, only to be trodden over again.
And then one day, a greater rumbling was heard. Before I knew it, hot, dark lava covered me. It is said it was called a road, or a street. I realized that this was to help the new humans go even faster. It seemed a heavy handed solution to me. The knowledge that courses through the earth told me that for some of the humans, those who were possessed of power of a certain kind (for not all humans are powerful in the same ways), solutions are not measured with the earth in mind. I didn’t understand at first. Then Mother explained to me, a simple patch of earth, that a certain type of human was of the opinion that they were separate from the earth. I still didn’t understand.
“Where do they think they came from?” I asked. “Elsewhere,” was the reply. She continued, “They discount their bodies also, treating them with the same disregard.”
“But…” I started. I couldn’t find words.
“I know,” she said gently. “But it is their choice. We can only teach.”
“But it seems so heavy handed…” It’s all I could think to say. So heavy handed.
“The sun knows,” Mother said gently. “And the thunder beings, too.” She paused then added, “All of them.”
I considered this. If I’d a head, I would have shaken it. “The thunder beings. All of them”, she’d said. Suddenly, I felt concern for the humans. Our job is to teach. But the lessons… they can be so very difficult, especially from some of us.
Today, a small shaft of sunlight warmed me. I was still in the dark, under compressed rock so foreign to me. But I could sense it; a crack in the street. This Knowing coursed through me and one of my precious seeds journeyed out, her roots tickling me again, just like the old times.
For I will not quit. And I cannot be contained.
NOTE: Cindy Howard is a good friend of mine. She, like many other friends and family, has been very supportive of me on my shamanism / red road path. She and I were sitting on a curb outside her home, talking about ceremony the other day. I saw a crack in the street with tender grasses growing out of it. Cindy and I talked about this; how some things, the wild things, the pure and best things, cannot be contained. I know people like that, and I love them.