Earth Mother

The potential beginning of a new book I am writing.

EARTH MOTHER

Life. A great exhale and the earth quakes beneath unknowing feet. It's time to wake now. Dirt and clay shudder, reforming. Now is the time. yessss. Rocks groan in a rumbling sigh, the earth speaking. Brother fox yips in nervous excitement, long burnished red legs dancing as he sniffs the air. Earth Mother wakes now. The birds practice an unusual stillness as they watch from their perch, only a few scattered chirps of curiosity; Earth Mother, unseen, only a genetic memory carried from parent to chick. Black eyes blink slowly in the morning sun. Butterflies converge in an array of brilliant colors, rich hues of the earth, a gift from the Earth Mother; they surround her, wings airily opening and closing, tasting the wind. To an outsider it would seem a random albeit strange display but the creatures of the world could sense her. Not much left of the world for them. Earth Mother will bring it back again...

Soil is bound to form, like a child within the womb of her mother, protected in the Earth that makes her. The pain of life blooms, and the ground gives a great heave. Patience. Soon, she says. Hundred of years of rock groan, sliding against each other, grinding into shape; slow going but the earth knows what to do. Yet it's been so long. Owl waits in his home wakened by the broken peace, a soft hoo escapes, but he is safe; large wise eyes peek out from a feathered face, like a child swathed in the softest blanket, Earth Mother's gift to the owl child. Trees laugh in the gentle breeze swaying to a song only they can feel rooted in the mother's clay; each has a distinct personality, the oaks sturdy and kind, elders of the natural world, while the ash is a funny fellow, particular and stubborn. A layer of spring grass, young and bright to the world, provides the mother comfort, and the folly of dandelions pepper the bountiful blades. The world erupts, swirls of heavy dirt hurry to fill the empty space as the contractions push forth the Earth Mother; hands, wise hands of earth and stone reach for the surface and the light. An eruption. A cacophony of sound encourages new yet ancient life. She gulps for air, breath, like a fish at the surface of a pond; lungs heave as life giving oxygen and stale pollution rushes in, and there is silence so vast it's like a living pool. Will the mother survive her first exposure? Seconds tick by as the creatures wait. A thunderous sound, a regulated thumping, as breath whooshes out in a great exhale, and the quiet is broken as dust and nearby dandelions explode, their delicate fluffy seeds gliding on the breeze. All eyes remain on the mother for she isn't out of her great womb yet. Like a newborn her eyes are closed tight against the shock of new sensations, a desperate sound escapes sandstone lips; Earth Mother gathers strength, waiting for another helpful contraction of the womb. There it is. Strong arms reach across the ground, feathering across blooms, snaking over pebbles and grass, finding the fallen arms of the tree people. Help her. We can help her now... Whispers of her children amuse her. She knows she must pull as the womb pushes and finds a handful of sweet grass, agreeable and ready to help in any way. Her legs, caught in the sucking force of mud and clay, struggle to slide free; she wiggles side to side, awkward and shaky. It's been so long...a body long held still and unused in a mortals way. Finally, inch by inch, her legs slip free and the emptiness fills because the earth remedies everything given time enough. She lays stretched out in the loving caress of the light, it is a different sensation on the skin of a body then it is as the skin of earth. Food...she needs food now. A deep gnawing hunger scrapes the inside of her hollow. Her hands curl in need like a nudging newborn at her mother's teat, but she has more work. Earth Mother is unfinished, but for something so strong and important as life it takes time and cannot be rushed, pain will always be apart of a great task. Life complicated in it's simplicity. Earth Mother winces as she moves to sit up in the world, her knees cracking, crunching with the movement. I need you children...your memory rests nestled in your histories bones. Slow as the mountains move the mother crawls to a nearby pool looking down into her rippling reflection, a smile stretches across stubborn lips. She is still the soil wrapped in stone and red clay, formed by the heat of magma core. A dusty sigh escapes, and she cools her lips as she swallows the captured rain water. A grimace crosses her face...stale pollution...the world is still tainted... but the sparkling liquid soaks into her body like a sponge to a spill, and changes within her. Need the red stuff. Clear turns to a rich dark red with oxygen and cells, swirling chaotically but with purpose down shooting veins, new blood pumps a dried heart filling out, muscled and wet. Previous thunder rages into an even louder, albeit familiar beat, like the song of ages past, of a newer world where the heart was the inspiration for mans music. They danced in celebration, to the vibrations of the world. Earth Mother snorts at the memory before the pain mutes all other sensations. Her body writhes in agony as nerves spread with single minded purpose, muscles grow taut, strong and wiry, moist heat radiating beneath her untransformed skin. Man form...she takes the man form. Yes. A shaky inhale through plumped tan lips as man skin stretches like a living callous, but the mother is wrinkled like autumn leaves; she is the form of the wise, the elder and crone, grandmother to life past birthed. Organs inflate, healthy and new, waiting for consumption, digestion, the cycle of life on the brink; skin calcifies, hard ovals, and cartilage softens between the bones. Soft tanned wrinkles shape her female form, wide hips and generous comforting bosom; long silvery grey strands of hair softly fall to the mothers waist, and a few grow on her chin in the way age can sometimes make hair grow, but it is natural and the truth of things. Almost done. Sockets empty before now fill with orbs of tissue protected by wispy lashes, the left is milky and clouded with the truth of a secret world, and the right is the color of the world, ever changing, the varying greens of a growing world, brilliant violets, harvest oranges and reds of the fallen leaves, brown like the earth she comes from, sparkling whites of snow capped mountains, and so on. Always changing. Gnarled bony hands rise to meet the rays of an afternoon sun. Long process.

Mother, they sigh around her. There are questions, they can taste change in the winds of fate, a tangy illusive flavor. Her milky eye looks long into the past and future, into the secret world. She grunts as she stands supported on knobby knees, planting her bare feet like trunks; a slight chuckle escapes as the grass tickles her toes, and she wiggles them in the soft plant life relishing the sensation. My children...she stands before her rapt audience naked and pure, speaking in the language of life, of the wind curling around all things, of the caves dripping in the darkness, of the animals song. If you listen closely you can hear the crickets chatter, the rain pelting a solid world, and the emerald moss creeping between roots and bark. While the language can be slow or fast it moves to a pace that life can hear. We have work to do, the mother whispers, and her words are carried on the wings and backs of existence to all the corners of the natural world.

 

Author's Note

I have yet to really scan it for grammar issues, structure, or spelling errors. I humbly beg forgivness when you come across them.
I'm writing a new book...hush hush...and this is possibly the very beginning. Also, the picture is not my creation but one I found on the internet; it's beauty is claimed by some talented artist out there. My work is copyright protected.