When was the last time you sat still long enough to hear the noise of rain blowing toward the land, climbing the cold glass of the windows and then dancing across the roof? Or grown quiet long enough to see the mist pour down off the shoulders of the mountain, run over the little hills and spill at last out onto the waters of the canal, white candy fluff against the polished silver disk of quiet water.
Grow roots child, wrapped in a blanket of contentment, fire murmuring secrets to itself while the wisdom of twenty generations of sages flowers from the pages of your book, pouring over you lap, vining its way through your hair, and exploring the furthest reaches of your quiet sanctuary like a barefoot nun waking to meet her Lover in the first dew of dawn.
I cannot recommend it enough little one, enslaved to cash registers and pinging alert bells, at the beck and call of an electronic child you have birthed and forgot how to say no to within moments of his wailing first breath.
The sea remembers, or has never heard of email alerts, or flash sales, and does not care. There is an oyster bed to tend, down in the darkness where silt moves in great tidal heartbeats and pearls grow slow as tree rings and as precious. And you, did you know your soul has rings? Like the Sitka Spruce, or the pearl growing in the cold secret lips of Oyster. Layer after layer, you laid down in sediments of light.
Sand and sunshine, feast and famine all carved in the layers of your soul. Which, if you will not stop now and then to put down roots, will wander lost and alone far behind your frantic pace calling, always calling and seldom heard. Sit down, let your aching feet remember when you crawled. Your eyes too, spent with staring at a glowing screen crave a few hours at least to watch the mist, and cloud, and water kiss.
All of you in one place for once.
You have your Mother’s permission. I shall direct the tides; and manage the growing of the asters while you pause. I will count the fawn’s spots to be sure none have been lost, and inspect the pebbles on their journey toward round soft beach eggs. You may set it all down for a bit, and rest.
Unless, that is, you have forgotten how? You knew it once, when you took your first wobbling steps. When you sat down hard on my soft dark loam and damp moss under the wide old maple or dripping pine. Then you could sit for hours watching the sunlight crawl its slow humming way across the meadow. You talked to the raven then, laughing as he teased you, and told outrageous tales; always just out of reach.
Your bones remember, down in the bits of them that are still earth, and oak, and ash. Listen to your bones, forest strong and quiet. Your blood too, runs with the passion of mine, clear and sweet mountain streams tumbling back to the salty bright heart that beats for all and in all.
Listen to yourself, to your own inner song. Or, if you have forgotten how to sing, listen to your cousins. To cat on her soft unhurried paws, to coyote bright eyed in the dusk, to corn growing toward heaven, and strawberry making it on earth. Listen to alder and birch, and to the low chorus of the clams in their beds, the symphony of saplings round the wind-fallen cedar, feeding them with the bass notes of her body.
When was the last time you grew still, and slow, and quiet enough to hear me calling your name? Calling you home, for supper.