Jul 2017
It is when I intently idly
Walk in the woods,
By the stream,
On the grass,
Over high mountains,
That I find a peaceful place.
A place where I look down at
Sunflowers, rising
Butterfly wings, fallen
Earthworms, crawling in
The soil.
The soil.
The soil I plant my feet in,
A part of a huge whole.
It greets me heartily.
This soil of my soul.
Walk in the woods,
By the stream,
On the grass,
Over high mountains,
That I find a peaceful place.
A place where I look down at
Sunflowers, rising
Butterfly wings, fallen
Earthworms, crawling in
The soil.
The soil.
The soil I plant my feet in,
A part of a huge whole.
It greets me heartily.
This soil of my soul.
Inspired by a tour of the Marsden Hartley's Maine exhibit at the Colby College Museum of Art. When describing Hatley's connection to Maine, the tour guide mispoke about Hartley's feeling of "coming out of the soil", then corrected herself to "coming out of the soul of the place". I love the closeness of the two words "soil" and "soul", and find this closeness personally true in my own connection to the earth and spirituality.
