What is it?
Why have we forgotten our relationship with nature?
We have forsaken the proverbial hand that feeds us and now we are really scrambling. We are in a void that we have created and sustained, ignoring all the signs and snubbing older, wiser cultures. I have been wondering what to do about this and I can’t quite think of anything, not even as I stare up into the sky and collect leaves. My hoarding of leaves is a symptom of my own internal longing. I reach up, a gold leaf falls into my hand, gracing me before it blows on. Other leaves fall, somehow reaching me, too. I want to go and get my fill of big sky and land and I want to feel the smallness that I am in its fullest. In Wyoming, Montana, in the desolate, brimming plains. In Texas.
I am missing what we are all missing–connection.
I dream of pressing my body into a hillside. It’s the bigness I would focus on, the enormity of what it means to be small. But in real life, if I were to cleave to a mountain in all its sacred holiness it would be the small things I’d see–the dirt, the ants, the tiny twigs that bear into my cheek marking me as I close my eyes and smell the sweetness of the open air. Air. It is the only thing feels true in this life. Have we even domesticated the air we breathe?
In response to this dreadful catastrophe,
I have settled on getting a dog as a band-aid. Though this, I suppose, is really only a quick-fix to something entirely unrelated. My other thought is that I move. To big sky country. Or the Southwest to a place where there’s little snow and warm orangy sunsets.
Or I say, Or I try this: I try staying right where I am, still for once, feet planted firmly to the earth and I breathe. Breathe breathe breathe.