The day is bright and calm and touchingly innocent of the storm which approaches. Earlier, I welcomed a new pansy to my garden, and came inside with my hands brown and fragrant with good, rich soil. Now it's translating into words that tumble together, shy and quiet and dreamy, to form a story.
I need to draw my voice from the root-woven earth, from forgotten seeds and old, dark tree reveries. I need to shape my stride into the rhythm of the air. When I lose sight of the fact that I'm part of this world, this wild, rather than its witness or its guardian - I am a small sound within the great, endless conversation of trees and light and sudden water and footprints left behind - when I forget this, I forget myself.
I read something yesterday which I thought was worth repeating, because it reminds us of how much our perception of nature is filtered with ideas of power rather than community and love : bee colonies aren't so much ruled by a Queen as by a mother.
There are fewer bees in my garden this year, despite the luxuriousness of my rosemary bush. But then, we have begun to value mothers less, haven't we? What we see in ourselves, we see in nature, and vice versa. How we sow is so often how we speak.