I’ve been
working on my book about landscapes and writing.
Literal writing.
Literal
landscapes.
And the symbolic
journey of moving through writing process just as we move through natural areas.
The other day I
reread a portion that discusses my years-long ritual of putting my bare palms
down on the earth outside. I didn’t think too much about it as my eyes moved
over the words.
But the next day
as I sought relief from work, a bit of calm, I remembered all I had to do was walk
fifteen paces to the door, open it, and step out into the sunlight. I moved
across the warm deck to the edge of the dirt-once-grass and stepped off. Bare
feet on earth. Then, stooping, I suddenly realized my naked hands were resting on
the earth.
Impulse.
Instinct.
Habit.
There is divine
supplication in allowing ourselves to bend, crouch, kneel, or lie on the
ground. We become one again with everything in us that is unfettered, dirty,
alive, and growing.
There is also holiness when a seed is planted. A memory-seed, that our body then animates in
precisely the moment we need it…
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit:
"©2015 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
