Ever since I’ve had a choice, I’ve lived in the wild. My body, tethered to a mind that wanders, needs constant affirmation of its place in the earthly scheme of things. Without this physical contact, my spirit years too much for that nameless home in the sea of pure consciousness. When I feel like a spring onion bobbing about in primordial soup, earth grounds me to this precious life.
Perhaps the grace in drawing breath is the rare gift of knowing I can be, for a time, differentiated into I. What joy in perceiving the miracle of Other – this dance of light and darkness, variety, color and form! The divine drops into matter to experience itself in a sentient universe, and how thrilling to realize I already have a part in the play!
That I might remember this with every breath, earth herself virtually assures. But the mind grows bored and restless, forgetting and distracting in endless repetition. Thus I choose to live where it’s easier not to overlook the miraculous embedded in the mundane, in a place so beautiful that, should my head stray too far, I can actually hear my heart ticking off minutes of mortality, bringing me back to what is essential in the splendor of sea and sky, in wind rustling branches and hissing through grasses.
If I listen very carefully, I can even hear grains of soil separating themselves, and I experience the alchemy of temporality to my borrowed bones. I know what is real and what is merely a figment of my forgetfulness.