(from journal)
There I was, about to write about being grounded, rooted--rooted in the earth--and I just happen to land on the page in my journal where I had pasted-in pictures of space shuttles going far away from here, to somewhere unknown; somewhere nothing like home.
Home.
Home. World. Earth.
Earth.
Rooted.
"Rise up rooted, like trees."
In a place.
Two bald eagles, I saw that day. They reminded me.
Commitment. Fidelity.
To a place. A planet. An other.
There, in ritual, sitting on different branches toward the same setting sun.
An ancient peace. (Will I ever know?)
And then their enormous nest--perched in its place, despite the road. Oh eagles.
Their heart's roots beat and their love seeps into the air
into the ground
into the sound of silent setting sun (setting earth).
They will wait. They know
Place.
They know
Wait.
They know.
I've been thinking about the movement of the planets, and then it hits me that the sun doesn't move. (Setting Earth). It floats fixed and sticks to its place glowing and growing in space. I'd never thought of the sun that way: rooted with no roots. Just floating where it is. And all the stars that way too.
And me...
I want to be among the stars, with my feet on the ground.
to know vast enchantment and simplicity;
to live humbly in the stardust and nobly in the dirt.
