Dear Earth, I have been fretting about death.

We are in the fists of a pandemic, and this fretting has preoccupied me. I have been resisting the fact of my almost total lack of control. I have been reassuring myself with lies about my invulnerability. I have been checking for fresh news every ten minutes and prodding at the fear like a bad tooth.

Meanwhile, sparks of electric blue are budding on the green alkanet, and the pond is full of squirming black commas.

I have been neglecting you, darling Earth. Like a bear with a sore paw, I have been nursing my small pains and closing my eyes to yours. You are still running a temperature. You are still having your blood poisoned and your feathery green fur ripped out. You are still watching us as we fail to save sixteen thousand children, the ones who will die today (and tomorrow, and tomorrow) because they don’t have enough to eat.

I have been nursing my small fears, which are terrifyingly big when they loom so close, and this is understandable, and appropriate, and forgivable.

Yesterday I tucked sleeping vegetable seeds into dark pots. Soon they will stir, stretch, reach up for Brother Sun.

When I think of the magic inside seeds, I am not so afraid of dying. When I watch my bunnies grooming each other, when I listen to a lonely stranger, when I plunge my hands into hot washing up water, I am not so afraid of dying.

Dying will come. When fear arises, I will tend to it. When a pumpkin seed sprouts, I will water it. When joy floats up like a wren’s song, I will embrace it.

Dear Earth, help me to remember these small tasks, the things I can do today. Help me to remember the comforts of impermanence. Help me to remember your wide lap, where I can rest. Help me to keep loving you.

Love, Satya <3

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Image by 【微博/微信】愚木混株 【Instagram】cdd20 from Pixabay