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The Flesh of the Earth

I go back back to the grassy plain my blood has touched for centuries. I listen to the hiss become a song, and I feel my core grow into the earth. We touch, me and this place. 

The wind whistles along to this melody, and the sun reclaims me. My tension is eased— and I breathe.

I love to come to this place, only to become vulnerable and open. I am like the wildflowers, growing unexpectedly and everywhere. 


I welcome my lack of uniformity, my scattered pattern— after years of crafting the perfect mechanism that would impede the parts of me that are not pretty.


The little girl in me loves to see roses in the weeds and helicopters in the dragonflies. I remember singing into the space between the sky and myself, hearing freedom bursting from my tiny body. I twirled until I fell to the ground from dizziness, little girl drunk. I was the flesh of the earth most days. 


Well, I will begin to twirl again. I will sing and see the beauty in the mess— I will live like a child again. I cannot bear to lose myself to this world and the reality we have agreed to exist in. This may seem silly. 

I am a woman now, and silliness does not suit us well, does it?

So, I will call it other things instead. I hope you will too.

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