You are standing in a field. You kneel and take a handful of earth. Outside is cloudy and humid, about to rain but not yet. The earth is moist and you feel it on your fingers as you play with it. I say earth but what i mean is soil, the real stuff, meaty, dirty yet fertile. Things are growing here.
You bring it close to your nose, attracted by its texture and the ancient connection with this loam, the estranged and always present pull of the earth. You take a deep breath, You don’t feel a rotten smell, it’s there of course, but there are flowers too, like roses and ylang ylang and maybe a hint of some sort of citrus, is it an orange? What flowers and fruits came to die here, leaving their flavour and nutrients as testament of their existence and seeds of rebirth?
You realize that behind all this there is wood. A bit rooty. You have a vision.
A greek God took this dirt and rubbed it on sandalwood for centuries. When it was done, it breathed life on it. His breath of incense permeated it all. When it was done, the mold appeared where you are. It’s been there forever, forever changing. Every season and every crop and every serendipitous flower and fruit that happened to touch it, every wind and rain, changed something.
You can take it as it is, just some normal earth on a field and leave it at that, most will.. But when you love it, you might get a sense that there’s more to it. Something magic, complex, hard to understand. Something bigger than now and yesterday or tomorrow.
The breath of God.
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