Earthly Bodies

For years I have written about our bodies as ecosystems. We respond directly to the health of the land, air, water, plants, other animals, and communities surrounding us. When Earth is harmed, our bodies are harmed. When the wild is destroyed, something wild in us disappears, too. Growing up in the woods of Western Massachusetts, I knew the land around me as alive.

“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” ~ Rachel Carson,A Sense Of Wonder It is spring in the Northeast and I am emerging again. For me, a change of season is a potent time for release or renewal. In autumn, I reflect on what I need to compost and try to shed the weight of old stories just as trees let go of their leaves.

The celestial pivot point of autumn is here in Western Massachusetts, and there is a lot on my mind. I’m reflecting on what I need to shed as deciduous trees begin shedding their leaves. I’m reflecting on my creative process and how it has changed. It has been a year since Earthly Bodies was released into the wild. The most rewarding part of the book release has been the feedback I’ve received from readers.

I spent my birthday bathed in the sound of howler monkeys, macaws, and countless other wild beings in primary forest of Costa Rica. Some might say I was alone in my friend’s jungle home since I was not with any other human. But I was far from alone. Immersed in life, I celebrated with spider monkeys, mountain almond trees, butterflies, tropical flowers, toucans, hummingbirds, howler monkeys, macaws, sloths, and on and on.

Today’s fast pace of overwhelming information is calling for me to slow down. To pause. There is too much to digest all at once. I have been feeling allergic to screens lately. I still turn to screens for teaching and for meaningful connections but my body is pulling me outdoors. Toward a flesh and blood community. I want to hold a pen in my hand instead of typing on a keyboard. To write a plea for rain into parched earth. Dirt under my nails, I want to write to and for the soil that gives so much.

It’s no wonder our ancestors believed in fairies. Every night for the past two weeks, I’ve seen tinkerbells flickering in the dark. I sit in the window seat with Lizzie, my feline companion, watching them send love notes with blinking light. Even in these long days of summer, the wild needs the dark to live, love, and thrive. I live in Western Massachusetts, where fireflies peak just as July 4th fireworks begin.

Art, in all its forms, is a powerful tool for personal, cultural, and environmental transformation. It is a unifying force that can bridge divides, heal wounds, and inspire collective action. The NO KINGS website says: “An essential element of movement and community building is art and artists who bring life and creativity to the message of the moment.” I’ve been thinking a lot about the need to create and consume art that nourishes and inspires vs.

I watch the birds return after their long journeys from Central and South America. They arrive here in Western Massachusetts with only themselves. No suitcases packed with trinkets, outfits, books, or any other entertainment for their journey. They land trusting that food, shelter, warmth, community, and everything else they need will be found. I am in the process of moving again. After a lifetime of being somewhat of a nomad, I am moving to a place where I intend to root down.

It is 2:45 am on Mother’s Day, and I’ve been awake for almost an hour. Some of my restlessness is welcome because words are coming to me. I’m developing book chapters in my mind and finding sentences that escaped me in the busyness of days. I am awake because of inspiration, or at least to download words that express complicated ideas I’ve been gnawing on. I am grateful when writing comes to me like this. I finally gave up on sleeping and came upstairs to write.

“I can entertain the proposition that life is a metaphor for boxing-for one of those bouts that go on and on, round following round, jabs, missed punches, clinches, nothing determined, again the bell and again and you and your opponent so evenly matched it’s impossible to see your opponent is you …” ~ , On Boxing I just cleared out my storage unit and, with it, a monthly financial drain. It feels good. Now, reintegrating all the belongings that have been hidden away means sorting through my past.