Garden as Mirror: Nature & Self, Intertwined

Within the soil, there is dark.

Impenetrable to light through layers of accumulation, foundational rock, and decay from the seasons past. This is where the seed lies.

She waits for rain, for the cold to pass. Timing is a flow to be carried by, not to be restrained. So she waits. With the soak of moisture, she breaks through her own shell and unfurls as something becoming. Cellular knowledge beckons out. Plant fibers seeking sun before they even know what they are growing towards. She yearns to stretch her spine, the final uncurling. As the seed, she breaches the soil.

A woman is composed of soil. She harbors the conditions for life and the resilience to bare it. Like the seed, she must take the conditions she was given, conjure beauty from the clay and brace against boulders to fight to see the sun. Tuning into skin and bone she must feel out what she needs, learn knowings unfamiliar. Unlike the seeing, hearing, and tasting we know so well…

Soil Woman sits beneath the winter sleep tree, roots interwoven with outstretched legs. Back to bark. Eyes closed. She listens. Fungus networks its threads, a masterpiece woven, in the soils beneath us. Knowledge travels from tree to tree through telephone wires of fungus to branches and perk new buds. What brews through you?

Soil Woman breaks water line with bare toes over smooth rocks, she slinks into the alpine ice cold river. Body temperature drops and the veil between water molecule and skin blurs. Where do you cast cold shadows on places that hunger for warmth?

Soil Woman sits in the echoless snow with a breath so light, even she does not disturb the silence. Energy fizzes inside of her as the boredom of the wait itches at her skin, battling the urge for more, for movement, for the beginning. She tempers this desire. When do you push for more without seeing the value in what is right in front of you?

There has been little change on the surface, as trees sleep with bare branches and white dust ice covers the land. Winter wind bares cold abrasiveness and urges rest. Pulled inward to ourselves, time slows. We muse within our minds of the things we wish we could be in the coming days, when the world begins to wake. Seeds rest beneath the surface of matted fall leaves, becoming lace under snow as they decay vein by vein. What appears as stagnancy to the eyes of others is seen clearly by Soil Woman as becoming.

The seed stirs within itself. It brews hope, intention, and intuition. It holds blind conviction that spring will come, one day, sometimes sooner and often times later. But still, one day. It gives over, relinquishes control, breathes out. It trusts. With this release into the dark, into the alone, into the wells of time, it grows.

Soil Woman senses the seed below her. Yet, to brush away the soil to check its progress would weaken its conditioning. This act would take away its toil. To remove obstacles, to be more comfortable, to be in ease and familiarity, would stunt its growth. Soil woman knows challenge and discomfort and waiting is the purpose in the first place. She knows that growth proceeds greatness.

Lean back to the sky, woman sweet soil. Kick back to soft churned blues and clouds of cotton. Layer birdsong and burgeoning grass blade in wind. Listen far and hear distance, sense out what’s in-between. Rub friction between palms and bare thighs, rush blood to goosebumps. Full breath into the bottom gut of the lung, filling up rib-cage with the time

you have

to savor.

If Soil Woman feels long lost, like a self you can not dig out of your soul and bare to sunlight, I promise you can find her. Beg naïvety and question all you know to be true about nature. Use the senses you know so well to touch for her: caress blades of winter sleeping grass or browning bark. To taste for her: biting into the leafy bit of the vegetable you usually only eat the root of. To listen for her: river competing with wind for your ear. Ask questions. What does the tree ruminate on in its winter rest? How do the hibernating bears sense the spring? Does the river sound different as the snow pack melts and raises its waters?

Look into your own wintering. How did you allow rest and did it nourish you? What did you cultivate inside of you that you will bring forth into the coming season? What did you enjoy purely for pleasure? How does your body cultivate knowledge and intuition that you can tune in to?

Each woman is composed of soil. Foundational rock makes up her childhood. Organic, decaying matter made up of her breakdowns, her sorrows, her pain. Once processed, creating nourishment for the future. Dirt, the environment she surrounds herself in. Minerals influenced by planets and stars above are her guide, her compass, her intuition. Never alone, each woman is composed of stars, and mother earth, and soul.

A woman

is becoming.