Earth, my body.
Water, my blood.
Do the tides of our blood surge when the moon is full, and calm at its ebb? My own feels in need of stirring, a tonic of nettle and rainwater blessed by starlight.
Floods of river water have overtaken the low-lying trails I walk. The cold water at last unlocked from snow and ice, to trickle, wash, rush through the veins of the Earth.
Kingly trumpeter swans, glowing white pelicans, red-eyed loons, snowy egrets, great blue herons float, stalk, swim and fish where they please, their watery world wide, nearly boundless.
I watch them, from the landing places.
Submerge me in the cold water, let me become boundaryless, shapeless, thoughtless; clear as quartz.
I long with an ancient part of me to drink of wild water, as the animals do, without harm.
Drink at the holy wells, quench my thirst at any stream, river or lake, replenishing my body and blood with that water.
How much we have lost, we humans. Quietness. Water we can drink. Wilderness. The abundance of wild creatures. The dark sky and its shimmering constellations of stars. The stories of the land. Traditions, rituals, and even a sense of our place in the universe.
In the wildscapes, and in the garden outside my windows, I hear spring's first white-throated sparrow, a yellow-rumped warbler, a bluebird.
Chorus frogs in the marsh sing loudly to each other, quickly falling silent at a footfall.
A robin sits upon her precious eggs, in the nest she built under the eaves, next to the back door. From my point of view it is not the ideal spot, as she is startled off her nest every time we go in or out, but it is the place she chose, so we bow to her wisdom.
Rain falls softly but steadily today. Colder here than in Quebec, but three degrees warmer than in Reykjavik. I am both restless and listless in the March-like grayness.
I sipped a cup of nettle tea, downed a spoonful of elderberry syrup. Where is my wild elixir, my Drink Me potion? Within a handful of rain?
