May You Be Changed By What You Hear

I've been busy climbing Juniper limbs and pressing my way through Scrub Oak, tenaciously constructing piles of dead brush and branch like an inexperienced beaver for this coming summer. Fire mitigation is necessary as we have not received the snow pack needed for these parts, and wildfires are always a looming concern.

I have found myself twisted and swirled about by the mythic forces of the Earth, by the political climate of Turtle Island and the world, by the tending that comes with being Mother, by wounds that claw their way up from the depths of me, by the building of our home, by the tending and terra-ing of and with this land, by the quickening and collapse all around us.

When I'm in the trees, my hands wrapping around their limbs, feeling their bark tickle exposed skin or branches drawing blood from legs and arms, I find myself rooting into their stillness, and a silence sweeps over my gut and heart.

𝐼𝓉'𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔.

I hear more crisply the chickadees, juncos, magpies, crows, ravens, pinyon and stellar jays, golden eagles, mountain bluebirds, and nuthatches whispering erotic incantations of spring time, birth, and a heralding of the green shoots pressing their way up from the fecund and delicious dark of the earthen womb. I hear the subtle caress of the wind against last years oak leaves, and the crunch ponderosa pine needles under deer hooves. And there's the family of Turkeys that gurgle and coo while seeking last years seeds still clinging to tall grass blades.My invitation for you is inspired twofold by both the land and a poem. Let me first offer a quote by Mark Nepo: "To listen is to lean in, softly, with a willingness to be changed by what we hear."

𝒯𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇.

TᕼE IᑎᐯITᗩTIOᑎ:

To go to a place on the land, and let your animal body melt into the ground or limbs holding you. Then, simply, 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃. Listen with your whole body to the land and earthen kin. Listen deeply to the smells of spring, the colors of fresh growth and old decay, the caress of soil, the spell-binding songs of wingeds. Let your listening be an invitation not only for intimacy, but also for place to happen to you. That rather than seeking something from place, you are offering back to place your attentive love and devotion, as if you could hear the green shoot sinewing it's way past mycelium and earthworms toward a vibrant sky.

ᗩᔕ Iᖴ ᗯᕼᗩT TᕼE GᖇEEᑎ ᔕᕼOOT ᕼᗩᔕ TO ᔕᕼᗩᖇE ᑕOᑌᒪᗪ ᑌᑎᗪO YOᑌᖇ EᑎTIᖇE ᗯOᖇᒪᗪ ᗯITᕼ ᑕᗩᔕᑕᗩᗪIᑎG ᗪEᒪIGᕼT.

And to top this invitation off, I shall leave you with a poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer:"Let me listen.

"Let me not know what to say. Let me receive the world as it slurs and shrieks, hums and whispers, speaks and bleats. Let me lean ever closer in. There are walls I have built in my ears. There is so much I would rather not hear. Let me listen. Let me receive with wonder. Let all be worthy of note. Let me be witness, eavesdropper, spy. Let me never pretend to be deaf. Let the world slip into me and change me as light changes a room. Let me be silent, let me listen, and in listening, let me be new."

May the land, through your listening, slip into you and change you!