Please rise up, daughters of earth, daughters of our sacred Mother,
rise up and speak to us, for we need to hear your voices.

You who have long lingered at the feet of our Mother,
who have learned her deep and mysterious ways,
the sacred arts of healing.

We sons of heaven are fond of seeds,
those tiny windblown bits of heaven.
We love to scatter them,
casting them here and there, in reckless whimsy.
We know nothing of the sacred meaning of seeds.
We know nothing of what it means to take them in,
to allow them to sink into the cool, dark depths.
Although we cannot eat without the bread,
and there is no bread without the stalk,
and there is no stalk without the earth,
yet we know nothing about these mysteries.
We do not know why the seeds grow.
But you do.

Long ago we sons of heaven,
while walking in the forest,
heard, from the upper reaches of the canopy,
silly chirpy sounds flitting from branch to branch,
and calling out from tree to tree.
And we heard only funny noises to imitate.
We heard a new sort of seed that we could merrily toss about.
But you, o wise daughters of earth,
you knew what to do with these seeds.
You heard in them the first notes of a beautiful melody,
a song that could carry us all,
the music of your own bountiful heart.
And you weaved these notes into music,
and you sang to us,
you sang your beautiful heart to us.
You sang of heartache and belonging, birth and death,
joy and sadness, sickness and health.
And we heard you.
We heard in the songs you sang the whole of this life.
We heard the music of your immaculate heart.

In your songs, and in your stories,
you taught us that the fabric of our very being is care,
care for you, care for our Mother and all Her children,
care for Her beautiful body, Her great green and ever-growing life.
And we remembered that all our strength comes from earth,
that we must walk with kisses upon the face of our gentle Mother.

But somehow we have forgotten the ancient songs,
the sacred stories and images.
We traded care for consumption,
we blinded ourselves to the face of our Mother,
willing ourselves instead to imagine
merely a mute and mindless resource to exploit,
burning and cutting and killing,
mining and extracting and depleting.
Some of us have even begun to imagine
that we might simply leave the earth behind,
once we have finally taken all there was to take,
and dwell forever in the heavens,
or perhaps just find some new world to consume.
Please forgive us, o daughters of earth.
And please save us from this madness.

Perhaps our Mother is now dying.
Perhaps She is depleted and grown weak.
Or perhaps what grows weary is not Her power but Her patience.
Perhaps what will soon come to an end is not Her strength but Her silence.
A shrug of her shoulders and the tallest tower will tumble,
a momentary gasp and the grandest oak will be uprooted.
What dread flood may wash over us if She ever starts to weep?
Perhaps even now She is gathering up her fury
to strike us down in Her awesome wrath.

So, please, daughters of earth.
Speak to us.
Sing to us again.
Tell us tales again, old and new.
Bring us back to listen to the songs of the birds.

We may not hear you at first.
For though we have become brittle,
some remnants of our armor still remain.
Our arrogance has worn thin,
but we may yet try to mount a final desperate battle.

But please do not fear our feeble fighting.
Keep speaking to us.
Keep singing.
Show us how to see the face of our Mother in your faces,
how to hear Her voice in your voices.
Teach us how to love again by loving you.

– From a son of heaven and servant of earth

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