Dear Earth, I hear it.

Yesterday I was feeling physically low and so I rested at home. In the afternoon I walked around the temple garden, which I have neglected.

The spent hydrangea pom-poms were holding their rich dusky pink. The pyracantha’s berries have turned firebox red, and hang in clumps like grapes. The pond is clotted with hairy weed and Aiko bent to lap at the cold surface.

I sat on our platform on a wooden chair with peeling paint, Aiko beside me, and the late November sun pelted us. A pocket of peace. I happened to glance behind me and caught a shape moving in the dark corners of the hedge – a wren!

Speaking with a friend this week, I was touched to hear her description of my writing work as ‘a call to beauty’. The phrase has stayed with me. So many of us – gardeners, artists, cooks – do variations of this work. And, of course, you are the master of calling us to beauty, dear Earth. How could I compete with this huge decaying blossom, this tangled pond, the perky tail of this tiny honeycomb-boned creature?

I hear your call of beauty. I am asked to linger, the sun on my face. I am called to worship these eight goldfinches. I am compelled to do what I can to protect you. I am called to record fragments of your riches, and to offer these words as gifts.

With love, dear Earth. Satya <3

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Gratitude for the photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash