Lie down with your belly to the ground,
like an old dog in the sun. Smell
the greenness of the cloverleaf, feel the damp
earth through your clothes, let an ant
wander the uncharted territory
of your skin. Lie down
with your belly to the ground. Melt into
the earth's contours like a harmless snake.
All else is mere bravado.
Let your mind resolve itself
in a tangle of grass.
Lie down with your belly
to the ground, flat out, on ground level.
Prostrate yourself before the soil
you will someday enter.
Stop judging, fearing, trying.
This is not dying, but the way to live
in a world of change and gravity.
Let go. Let your burdens drop.
Let your grief-charge bleed off
into the ground.
Lie down with your belly to the ground
and then rise up
with the earth still in you.
~ by Nancy Paddock, from Trust the Wild Heart ~
: : :
I've put a pot on the boil today, some cloth filled with leaves & twigs
and handfuls of weeds. As I yanked those weeds from the spots they didn't belong
[didn't belong only because I said so ... they were quite happy]
the intense smell of damp earth surrounded me; that dark brown smell,
the one that comes after a long hibernation
and for me only belongs to spring.
I thought about belonging.
I thought about what it means to get up every time.
How I first have to lie down before I can get up.
I rolled all those thoughts into the cloth
with the leaves
and the weeds.