courting the soul of the soil
There’s a particular place in the Oregon coastal forest where the richest, darkest, fluffiest soil lives. On a wave of inhalation I breathe in the elixir of mushroomy, vegetal, pungent Earth with the briny, salty air off the sea, and it ignites deep, pelvic remembering of my Earth-belonging. I am an Earth-body, made of sea and stone. What emerges within and around me is animistic consciousness - the complex matter underfoot is alive, mirrored by the dynamism of my gut microbiota feeding my mind and intuition. I am claimed by Earth-matter, within and without I am fed and carried by that which I cannot see.
Here in this forest, this is a place that knows a lot about decay, and what it means to die over and over again. But it doesn’t end with decay and death. To make compost, to produce loamy, humic matter, is an alchemical, microbial transmutation that creates fertile ground, a womb bed, to generate new growth and continue its participation in the cycles and webs of life. The process of dying is alive.
The word humic shares a similar root to the word human, and humility. The word dhghem- which is the name of the Mother Earth goddess in Proto-Indo-European mythology also means “earth”, “soil”, “ground”. “Soil” is a Latin derivative of solum which means “bottom” or “foundation”. Human, as derived from the Earth, and humility, as to be “low”, or “grounded”, reminds us of our direct connection to the soil-Earth body on which we walk. Soil nourishes and provides, it is our foundation - not just literal ground we walk upon but the composted bones of our ancestors (human, animal and plant spirits alike). We are walking with spirit when we walk on the ground. And we are made of a resonate body hugged by and teaming with microbiota, fundamental to our health and consciousness.
Robin Wall Kimmerer says “we chart relationships in language”1 in reference to the pronouns we use when referring to the natural world. She speaks directly and distinctly of the word “it” and how this objectification of Nature through language cannot be separated from the cultural appropriation that has exploited the planet and people of their resources. She proposes new words, ki and kin (singular and plural respectively) in favor of her native language, Potawatomi, that is full of animacy when spoken. “There are words for states of being that have no equivalent in English” she says. It is a language that is primarily comprised of verbs, as are many native languages. This makes sense to me, as they are rooted in Earth, and Earth is dynamic and alive. Earth is autonomous and if we listen we can hear how the indigenous names have come to be, as they are carried on the wind and waves, each unique to each place. Nature speaks and ki speaks ki’s name.
Because the Earth is alive, and because we are only alive in relationship to and by way of Earth, we would do well to cultivate relationship with ki. Here, the bridge between me (human) and Earth (humus) might be found in language. How we address, how we approach Earth, spirit, even how we speak to our own bodies can either draw us closer or turn us away. What happens when we challenge the idea of boundary that attempts to keep us separated? What if we break the structure of individuation? Natalie Diaz wrote “We are of consequence to one another - the river, its body, your body and mine.” When I hear this I wonder how I might have contributed to separation or resonance, what of my heart’s longing was heard, or what I missed because I wasn’t listening. I wonder how many times I sat in the house of spirit, in the divine home of Nature, and perpetuated my own aloneness because I only acknowledged human presence and forgot that the mountains are also alive. This is relational business, matters of the heart concerning the great and mighty We, All.
The original idea of reciprocity was “obligation to hospitality”. Hospitality, in its root, expressed an idea of mutual exchange between guest and host, a responsibility towards mutual care that creates a bond. This idea has more substance to sink your teeth into than what we think of today when we say “reciprocity”. It has more weight than give and take. It has fangs, claws, fur, a gristle left-on-the-bone feeling to it. It requires something of us, it asks for us to show up, to answer the door when spirit comes knocking. It is alive and breathing, and it, too, knows about decay, and what it means to die over and over again. This, I believe, is the reverent kind of feeling we’re going after these days when we (re)create ceremony and try to remember the old ways. We are trying to remember how to build relationship, how to bond with spirit. How to hear the song of prayer in the trees and feel our appetites within the bellies of our deep longing.
How we speak to and about sentient beings, how we address Nature, and how we place prayer or intention into the field all matter. I think of reciprocity in terms of generosity, as in an act of humility. I think of relationship building, between two elemental beings. In Egyptian numerology, the number “1” defines “source”, “2” is that which is in relationship with source and “3” is what is made from that relational field. Our human-humus relationship makes culture or prayer; makes way for spirit to embody in form. If our first experience of Nature is sensorial, might the next expression be made tangible through language, art, poetry? Can we create and communicate from a life-affirming, animistic, reverent orientation, and invite spirit into our lives, merging the soul with the mundane, and ground ourselves into being claimed by the organic, vital life-force that is ever-surrounding us.
Diaz, Natalie. Borders, Human Itineraries, and All Our Relation
