A spoken freewrite.
The huntress leans her ear to the wind, places her skull on the dry earth to hear if the herd is coming.
The healer feels with her hands, the subtle pulsation of life under her skin.
Medicine woman listens to what the body has to say.
The animals in the forest gather, each one speaking in turn, listening between them.
How does the hemlock grove hear the passage of time, and what of our own echo?
I stood at the edge of the path, waiting for my own feet to find me.
How many ways do we have to listen to what is going on inside?
Take all the noise away. Subtract to-do lists devices television Netflix binge, work commutes subway schedules cafeteria menus printer jams Instagram feeds ticktock distractions; most of this I don't even do myself but it's in the world and therefore in me.
And I have my own sort of noise. The self-doubt oscillating with ego, and everything in between. The farm chores. Because we are well beyond a world where we let nature take its course, and provide for us, all on its own.
The huntress, ear to the ground. I want back there. The visceral listening, survival listening, birth of universe listening, birth of self. Listening to connect.
Ah, we have arrived now.
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