A Love Letter to Mother Nature

Mother Nature is my favorite of your names because it reminds me of nurture and how you are so much more than just a mother to us. You are the land upon which we hold our feet steadily, or run, unbound but still free to rest if weary. You are the crisp air we pull through our lungs into our mortal but also, somehow, immortal bodies to nourish our cells. You are the way of life, the ebb and flow of fate’s perpetual vigil. So large is your scope, and yet, so small it can be when needed.

You are the first and last breath and every sigh in-between. You are the serenity of the undisturbed lake and the crash of the ocean waves. You are the synergy of the white bird who sits on the cattle’s back and cleans it of insects, or the baboons who follow the elephants because they dig wells in the ground with their tusks. You are the loon’s call in the night and the heavy silence that always follows a sound so reverberating.

I am young and full of potential for growth, but sometimes, when I remember that you are my mother, both within me and surrounding like the canopy of fireflies, I feel ancient, having lived an eternity alongside you. Time doesn’t follow you the same way, neither do secrets. You have been privileged to every ounce of my being, every thought in my memory, so this may be clear to you, but I’ve never quite put into words what you mean to me.

One day, musing perhaps about the suns and their planets, you created me from water and stardust, held pieces of my being for centuries within your body until the exact mingling of spirits and minerals and people could make room for this mortal but also, somehow, immortal body. I am sorry that I didn’t see your brilliance sooner, that I didn’t understand every pain my existence had printed onto your body.

We are the soul that roams within you but also the plague upon your innocence, the sickness that seeps and burrows into your soil, making the sunflowers and corn maze wilt. We are the grain of doubt in a field of hope, like a dandelion planted among lilies. All the same, we are the dandelion seeds who, when taken by the inspiration of your breeze, explore your meadows and sunbaked greens until we dig our feet into your skin and flourish. Without us, you are bare. Without you, we are forsaken.

Mother Nature, Earth, Gaea, or whatever you prefer, you probably already know it, but I want to admit that I have taken you for granted.

For a long time, I have been selfish, forgotten that you and I, everything surrounding like a canopy of fireflies are one in the same. We are the burning forest, the mouse buried beneath the ash, and the sparrow robbed of its home. We are the streams, poison seeping into the sediment, and salmon, and blackberries on the bank. We are the speck of dust on the leaf of the bramble bush and the thorn that cuts the thumb of the boatsman when rowing by.

You have nurtured me since I was stardust, bringing together elements and love, a kind that only you can give, to make a unique imprint of humanity. I understand that it must be returned, nourishment set forth into the depths of your mountains and seas, your body of soil and hair of wheat, because if someone does not tend your love, how will you have any to give and continue to nurture like the mother you are?