A wandering song

Life flows to those who relish the continuity of body and earth. Every being immersed in nature finds a place within the primordial memory. Some exist while others glow; those who recognise themselves in the elements and the elements within themselves. The estranged, though they yearn for their mother more than anything, unhinge themselves and recoil with fearful aggression at her slightest touch.

She is the parent of parents; the ancestor of ancestors. Her knowing lives in her flesh. Without thinking, she contains more than any human mind, and without realising, the most magnificent beings dance to her whim. To truly feel her is a blessing reserved only for the bravely vulnerable, who walk softly over her perceptive terrain. It is wise to fear her and wiser to love her, and foolish to turn a back, lest she do the same.

To spill oneself through the senses and into her arms is to pay it forward, and to take more than needed is to take from one’s own family. The very oldest and the very youngest know, after all, that this life is rented. The truth is in plain sight, and though many seek it, few dare to open their eyes to find it. All that is born was dead; all that lives has already perished; every name and every story, nothing but a phrase in a wandering song.