SARAH HUDOCK

As those of you who farm already know, much of humanity is acutely disconnected from the earth, the other creatures that share it with us, and even our most direct support: our personal air, water, and food... that fundamental place our senses meet, ingest, and fuse our bodies with the universe.

Our world moves within us: into, through, and then out... and makes this life possible in the first place. We are made of it, and when we die our bodies merge again. But in some dark corners, we have come to believe that to be human is to be separate, above... to some even, "better than"....

The social narratives of society and commerce cynically call them "trends", but a new awakening has begun... it's starting: a new hunger for anything "real"... for food both healthy and local, a new desire to understand the land we impact and the animals who live here. We are beginning to question what we are told, to trust our own perceptions and gut feelings... we see now, our intuition is valuable, and that not everything needs to be controlled by humanity. We are hungering for the truth.

So... how do we live personally? Deep down, something important has been missing, a connection with our Earth that is as old as the mountains. Our own wildness is valuable too, and the earth doesn't belong to us. We belong to it. We are wild, too.

As individuals we are far more powerful than we believe, and not just with our clever minds. Our spirit, our hearts, feelings, and ancient, wild instinct give valuable insight too.

And the animals. Animals are true to their nature, and they speak directly to us, looking us in the eye as they show us how it's done. We with our clannish insecurities and psychical fears, so good at analyzing, rationalization, and denial. We forget to just... pay attention.

I go further: Nature is God showing us how it's done. We tell ourselves all manner of stories, but it is undeniable that we live within a physical limitation that was not created by us. It doesn't really matter how we got here. What matters is what we do, or don't do, with it.

I'm in a flux and I sense some changes are afoot.

We are complicated.

We imagine ourselves at the very center, with gods and trees and oceans rotating around.

The earth whirls and reflects, we see ourselves mirrored in every sunset, every blade of grass, every animal's eye. We seem unable to see anything else.

Tiny selves, such performances we give! Such legends of our own confines.

Let it be. Let the world be.

Let the wild be.

It is not here for our admiration.
It is not here for our ownership.
It is not here for us to steward and bastardize, explain and catalog.

Without us, the wild remains, on it's own terms, and without eulogy.

It is not here for us. We are here for it.

It is our blood that feeds the soil, our breath that feeds the leaves, our bones so exquisitely made for chewing by wolves. The worms are happy with what's left.

Without sentiment, without grief. This is good.

Let it be.

Bittersweet homesick memory.

Did I know it would be gone so quickly?

Trees deep-rooted now. Just saplings we planted that damp, annoying, distant shoveling day.

The same creatures, born again and again in this same spot. Living here, in this field, on that mountain. Drinking from the same spring for a hundred years. It is me who came and went, saw and forgot.

The ground is still there. I wince with soft barefoot step on sharp stones, remembering the thump of hardened childhood feet over dirt and leaves and grass.

Hefting hay in hot sun, breathing deep the grass-mown smell reminded, like lilacs, only once a year. Dogs panting under apple trees.

Garden weeds much-resented, tear at fingernails. The easy ones are a relief.

Seeking carefully laid, hidden egg treasures. I knew all their hiding places.

Frozen fingers on old latches, mittens wet with chores, awaiting hot stove heat inside. Need more wood carried.

Face pressed to horse's mane, breathe deep again. The cat tells to me, stories of her itinerant day.

Beloved animals loved and lost... and loved and lost...

I keep all this here, in this spot, in my heart.

It's a full Cold Moon, and the new Winter Solstice is just underway. Darkest and shortest of the year, light and dark pause before the tilt, Second Night takes a breath, waiting.

This time of year always feels In-Between... no longer quite the year it's been, not quite the next year either. It can be a gap of quiet to slip into... if I let it. Now is time for sitting by the fire, reflecting on lessons learned and taken to heart.

But not all lessons have been learned. It's been too easy for me to fall into our modern traps - electronic frenzy, soldiering-on, lurching into imposed obligations. It's lunatic, and it's not real... like a hologram. A collective human materialization of mania and flashing screens and distemper.

I've thrown it all off for now, I'm determined. No need to try so hard. No need to placate and comply so doggedly. Time is short, and it can be sweet, too. Doing this, the relief has been physical, visceral even. Now I light a candle and welcome the shadows, like old friends, to gather around.

Look down at your feet. What's between the soles of your feet and the earth?

How much lies between them?

socks, powder, nylon, rubber, more rubber, leather.
carpet, floor, subflooring.
space, stories... how many stories?
basement, concrete, rebar, steel.
dug down scarred, deep excavations
fatigue.

We humans are such funny creatures. We are afraid to be alone and yet afraid of each other. We are afraid of the dark and yet afraid of the sun. We keep ourselves infinitely distracted. Endless noise, endless talking, endless flashing lights. Even in our sleep, the LEDs blink, the phone vibrates, the furnace blows, the clock ticks.

But we are animals too, as wild as any out there.

Why do we keep ourselves caged? And in a hundred-thousand ways: boxes upon boxes of rooms, walls, roofs, steel automobile boxes, cubicles. Jobs, names, clubs, teams. Our bodies wrapped in polyester, hard rubber encases our feet, dark plastic warding off the very sun in our eyes. Our minds must always be gainfully employed, our feelings kept in check, our hair combed, our animal odors doused.

Your toes.

They long for the sand and mud. They remember the soil, the field, the rock, the river. But they were given a job to do instead. So busy balancing you, a long career of tension, constriction, and aching. Sealed up in their shoe-tombs. Aren't your feet a part of you?

You are made of the very same molecules that are in the earth. Not like those molecules. The same molecules. And they long to sing back to the stars they came from. Your breath, your voice, your sight, your senses. The soul of your feet. They are meant to be.

Wiggle your toes. Remember them.