30 minute practice/30 Days
Loops and licks of every kind of green swirling through twists and turns of the Grand Etang. I remember whispering to my 23 year old self, ‘Greetings dear Mother.’ I felt her in my bones. I felt a whirl in my stomach, not anxiety but aliveness. I felt an ancient longing to return to Her as though I had been separated for a very long time. It will take me many years in Grenada to understand the largeness of my greetings to Her, to the source of all sources; to be invited into the language of longing and love and anchoring; the knowing that our lives and souls depend on her and yet how disconnected and superior we humans feel to Her.
It was the same ancient longing felt as a child heading to Pendleton, a small village in the Ottawa valley where my Dad grew up, where my Irish ancestors settled in the late 1700’s. I spent weekend after weekend on the back of a silver horse, arms around the waist of my cousin Donna. Miles and miles of field and sky. Donna telling me to hold on as she clucked Silver into a canter. The dark deep forest bordering the fields we roamed Saturdays and Sundays. Aunt Helen’s garden at the front of the house. Out back, Silver tied to a peg dug into the soil feasting on lushness. Clothes on the line snapping in the wind. I breathe in buttery wheat fields, cicadas trilling, the comfortable quietness of Aunt Helen. Those weekends on the back of a horse with cousin Donna, wrapped in the arms of Mama Earth while the rest of the fucked up humans I belonged to rallied on.
