The land always holds a piece of my soul. I am the daughter of a farm boy whose garden in the city infuses life into his old blood. Every fall, he says he will not plant again the next year. Every summer I go and discover he has changed his mind, to no great surprise. Once a farm boy, always a farm boy. The boy can move from the land but the land never releases its hold on the boy.
This evening I attended a concert in which the family that grew up beside my father performed. I got shivers when one of the daughters introduced herself through a long line of ancestors. This, this, is connected to the land and a culture of French people. This sense of knowing who you are and where you come from–this is a part of me too. I am much older than my years. I am part of a long tradition and a piece of the earth. These people know it and so do I.
We are a piece of the roots in the land, a breath of the wind, and a beam of the Light that never dims. This is a gift from our ancestors who tilled the land and called it home. This is that restless voice that whispers to us to live fully. This is the ability to extol beauty when others miss it. The prairie will always be a part of me in ways that cannot be explained.
Does the land hold a piece of your soul?
Do your ancestors whisper to you so you know where you belong?
Creator of the land, wide and open,
of the roots, deep and strong
You plant within me a love
of nature and beauty
that cannot be explained
Harvest the joy that comes from this field