A Cry for Gaïa
Forests. Lusciously green, water-dripping, sunlight-drinking, collaborative, air-producing vegetation. Brimming with insects and critters and animals going about, eating and socializing and building nests and defecating plant-food that fertilizes the forests seeds and feeds them all over again. Can you see it?
The sensation of the humous between my toes. Cool and moist. The leaves brushing against the hair on my legs, against the skin of my face, leaving trails of water droplets shimmering in the sun rays filtering through the dense canopy overhead. Yes.
The smell. Oh, the smell of living, breathing flora feeding on decaying organic matter. Of earthworms. The out-of-sight fragrance of flowers; the aroma of herbs which I do not know by name. The sweet muskiness of other mammals nearby. The memory of this smell brings tears to my eyes.
And the sounds. A symphony of life. From the whisper of ants carrying pieces of leaves; to the birds singing to one another; to the soft and sharp noise of my feet breaking a dead branch; to the laughter of the children running around looking for treasures… So full.
The gladness and sweetness of finding fruit and eating them from the bushes; leaving some behind and taking some with me for the others back home. The joy at having found nuts on the ground from the tree overhead, a gift from the forest. I can sense the bulge of some of them in my backpack.
The familiarity of the path so many creatures have walked on — not just bipeds like me — brings comfort. Turning the corner, I enjoy the sight of our little shelters nestled away, the perfect simplicity providing everything that we need. My sun-kissed cheeks also burn from having smiled a lot. Overflowing with joy at the fulness of being, the aliveness of this very moment.
I feel fear. I feel so afraid that I won’t get to live in this way that my Being craves. I just described it to you. My body — my cells — long to be merged with the Earth. And yet the state of the world tells me that my chances of fulfilling my deepest longing are very slim.
I feel fear. For myself, for not getting to live in such graceful dance with the land. Most importantly I fear what the children might inherit. My brothers’ and sisters’ children. Will they every get to smell the richly-sweet full smell of the mycelium doing what they do best so that the plants can drink their food?
I have so much sadness. For myself, for the people born in oversized concrete pseudo-villages, baked and dried by the sun, pumped with sterilized air and artificial food. I feel sad that there are people that have never seen the wilderness, let alone slept one night in a place that has no wi-fi, no cell signal, no towers, no smog or stench of human “civilization”.
I feel sad for my parents. For the ones that might believe that if they give enough of their time, and power, and authenticity, and aliveness away to get enough of all those digital numbers in that place they call “bank account”; for the ones that spend most of their time doing what someone else tells them to do in exchange for more numbers; for my parents that have told me that maybe, maybe! they’ll “get” to be happy; maybe they’ll get to unwind and have time for themselves and their kids (or grandkids); and maybe, maybe! if they get enough of those digits in their “bank account” they can “retire” early and live the life that they truly want. I feel sad, because we are playing by rules that we never consciously chose to play by.
And I feel anger because the Great Being that is providing every single one of my nourishments, the very Great Being that has birthed the lifeform that I am is getting raped and destroyed and used and violated and abused and disrespected and suffocated. The Great Being that is housing me is getting ripped apart, opened up, drilled into deep, blasted through, poisoned and sucked dry. I know She will make it. I’m not so sure that we will. I feel angry, how could I have ever let that happen?
I sense I have so much grief yet to feel. So many tears to be shed for the frogs dying every day because of the fertilizers in our rivers. So many tears to be had for the calves that are being forced into existence so that they can be fed artificial grains and fattened up as fast as can be so they can be thrown onto a conveyer belt and ground into neat little patties that we garnish with whipped chicken embryos and red-juicy sliced greenhouse “tomato” with one leaf from chemical-water-grown hydroponic “lettuce” between two slices of “wheat” bread.
I grieve the thousands of free-roaming majestic bison that were slaughtered for profit, for growing as much “wheat” as we can; I grieve the baby Bobolinks getting crushed to death and pulverized as monstruous GPS-powered tractor-combines “harvest” — or rather, extract and steal — the seed from the wheat grasses, pillaging the ecosystems that were once Plains. What have I done?
There can never be enough tears coming out of my eyes, hoarseness of my screams for the ancient, ancestral forests being raped of their elder-plant-Beings being ripped out of my Mother, leaving gaping holes and deserted destruction behind so that we can burn them into “clean”, “sustainable” energy to briefly power the devices that are keeping us numb and separate from each other and our Connection with our very own special Service to the evolution of Consciousness. How could I have let this happen?
After being on this Earth for 23 years, I already grieve my unborn children. The very life I have been shaped to give is ripped away from me, by choice. And I feel profoundly angry that I have spent even a few years of my time, giving away my life, my sovereignty, my feelings to serve such an Empire. How could I pretend that I don’t know what is really going on as if I would get “killed” (intellectually, socially, culturally) by the ones pretending; believe they must to survive?
I am finished playing the win-lose, good-bad, right-wrong, positive-negative, competition, scarcity, intellectual, fake, bullshit game of the adolescent Patriarchal Empire.
I am taking a stand with my anger for protecting Gaïa. I hold out my hand in grief, walk with me over the bridge to Next Culture. I navigate with my fear to be careful with something so precious. I consciously turn up my joy to enjoy the richness of being fully embodied and presently centered, grounded and bubbled in this co-creative possibility.
I hope to see you around.
Harbigarrr!
Brianne
