She waits for us to understand,
or better, to remember:
that at her breast we all have suckled
since we each began;
and for a thousand thousand years
have eaten at her table,
imagining some unseen other
laying out the spread.
She waits for us to come back home.
Our lives are spent returning:
pretending that we start apart,
we blindly seek connection
to what we would call the divine,
imagining it elsewhere
when it is underneath our feet.
We never can be parted.
She waits for us to recognize,
to hear, to begin listening:
the current runs inside of all,
a song we all are singing,
that all is sacred or none is,
that there is no exclusion;
what binds us is her life in us.
What separates? Illusion.
22 APR 2013 (Earth Day 2013)
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