Child of the Earth

I was once a child of the earth.

Each morning I woke to fairies flickering on the log wall beside my cot: filtered sunbeams dancing through tulip tree leaves outside the screened porch.

All my friends were wild. I monitored tiny tadpoles as they grew and sprouted legs in the narrow creek fed by the artesian well, while brown-striped snails invited me to follow their trails carved in the sandy bottom of the lake’s shallows.  Turtles fell prey to my net and lived in an old oil drum cut in half lengthwise.  I outfitted it lavishly with lake water, seaweed, and rocks piled in attractive heaps – a reptilian vacation villa.

Wild black raspberries grew in tangled abundance along the road - I often ate as many as I collected in the little aluminum saucepan borrowed from our log cabin’s kitchen.  Their thorns taught me patience and carefulness, but never discouragement or defeat.

I regularly visited the frog colony living in the small pond shaded by elm trees where the creek widened. My playmates jumped from their mossy rocks to hide; I sat on a big stone and remained very still until they rejoined me.  If I waited long enough, sometimes I saw them snatch insects with their tongues.  Then they winked their buggy-eyes at me to make sure I'd noticed.

After sunset I chased fireflies, pulled slimy night crawlers out of dew-covered grass, or ventured under the stars to watch spiders spin artistic webs in the glow of my flashlight.  When tired (and never according to the clock), I fell asleep to a chorus of deep-throated bullfrogs croaking from the marsh, while moths fluttered hypnotically around the yellow light bulb on the porch.

Summers back then were idyllic - a time of wonder and awe, of belonging to clams and minnows and feral kittens in the woodpile, to abundant wildflowers growing along the dead-end road and dragonflies that soared over the water.  I knew where the leeches lived, as well as where I could promise they were absent. On still, windy, and stormy days alike I learned to be observant and decipher the lake’s various languages – to respect and appreciate the deep, soulful enchantment and allure of nature.

That was a long time ago.  Now I’m an old woman, a grey-haired grandma with deep thoughts.  Sincere conversation is important to me.  Life is beautiful and mysterious and grand, with divine meaning and purpose. "The whole earth is full of His glory," says Isaiah. I’m grateful I was a child of the earth all those years ago.  Otherwise things might have turned out differently, and I like it this way.