“Wherever you stand, be the soul of that place.”

– Rumi

We called Ben Lomond mountain our Mother
Home. For nineteen stunning years, we loved Her
Connection to the great blue, grey, green Pacific.

We were grounded by bedrock, by our knowledge
of Her refuge for us from this dark, unsafe world.
Every year, the pink mimosa tree blossomed.

After the garden grew its newly planted greens,
we walked the labyrinth in stones of triple spirals
teaching us fortitude, while dusty trails meandered

Their mysterious ways through the tall redwoods,
amid the spring sourcing to the Felton watershed.
Then we took our shovels into the dirt, imagining

A project now and forever, a change. We had felt
a change as perception informed our lives, but
what could we do but recognize how certainly

Our judgement was always in the dirt? Our lost
discernment would go when we failed to use it,
always wisdom coming forth from eternal ground.

Insight was from the soil where we used it well,
crawling in the muck. Wrapped in our good
senses, hurtling towards splendor, laying under

The Tree of Life, the shadow side of glory loomed,
as criticism arrived, seeing us tumble, detached from

The victory of superiority. Our souls let judgement
be grounded forever in a pivot, while we chose to
breathe, with Mother Earth, internally winding us

As our feet set roots in the dry mud, we felt strange
intimacy with the soot, connecting with puffs of dust.

Appreciating our souls, we grounded there in hand

Of Spirit, in the heart of Mother. Breathing in,
cherishing ourselves, breathing out love of
She who would never let us know Her sadness.