May You Be Held in the Dreaming of the Earth
June 21, 2025
May you feel, beneath all your striving and strain, the deep patience of the Earth that carries you—an ancient patience that does not rush to conclusions or demand immediate answers. May you remember that long before you arrived, she knew how to wait. She knows how to breathe in seasons, to grow quietly in darkness, and to unfold life again after every winter.
There is a stillness in her soil, a memory in her mountains, a hush in her valleys that speaks to the part of you that is tired of noise. May you come close enough to listen. May you lean your ear to the ground and hear the soft murmur of her dreaming—a dreaming that holds not only forests and rivers, but also you.
Though the world may seem chaotic and full of unrest, may you be anchored by her calm. For she does not forget her wisdom, even when we lose ours. She does not abandon the rhythm of the tides, even when we forget to breathe. She holds the grief of fallen leaves, the birth of every bud, the promise of spring in the heart of frost.
May you draw courage from her example—not the fierce courage of battle, but the quiet courage of roots that continue to hold, of seeds that trust the darkness, of meadows that wait for the right light. Let her dreaming enter you, slowly, softly, like rain returning to dry ground. Let her calm remind you that your soul is not behind time, not broken, not beyond repair—but simply unfolding, in its own good rhythm.
May your weariness find rest in the cradle of her curves. May your sorrow be met not with resistance but with open arms—the way the Earth receives all things without shame. May your joy, too, return with the thaw, carried in the sap of your own becoming.
If you have been feeling adrift, may her gravity return you to yourself. If you have been rushing, may her slow pace return you to peace. And if you have forgotten how to believe in renewal, may her ancient dreaming help you remember what lies hidden in the dark is not dead, only waiting.
There is a wisdom deeper than thought, and it lives in the body of the world. May you find it waiting in mossy silence, in the slow curve of the moon, in the way stones warm in the sun. May you find it, too, in yourself—an old, quiet knowing that you belong not because you strive, but because you are.
I love You,
Alma
