The Earth of My Body – The Body of the Earth
Until we find a home in our bodies, we cannot find a home on Earth either.
Until we reconnect with ourselves, our bodies, our feelings, we cannot connect with other living beings: until then, we only use ourselves, use each other, use the Earth.
And with that, we slowly destroy ourselves, each other, the Earth.
That is why I dance. To nourish life, not destroy it.
The soil of my body is a desert, every grain thirsting for water.
When rain falls, even just a few drops, it eagerly soaks it up and bursts into colorful flowers.
The soil of my body is a forest: springtime, fragrant. Insects buzz, grass sprouts, buds burst, life is born in every corner.
The soil of my body is a plowed field. Machines plow it, chemicals pollute it, never letting it rest—it must produce, produce.
The soil of my body is a snow-covered winter field. It sleeps quietly. It dreams, but no one knows what of. Not even me.
The land of my body is a rainforest. Humid, pulsating, mysterious and full of life, with exciting sounds and unpredictable noises.
The land of my body is a rocky ridge and an untouched tropical island, a creature suffocating under the asphalt of the city and the sun glistening on the waves of the sea.
The body of the Earth is a desert, every grain thirsting for water.
When the rain falls, even just a few drops, it eagerly soaks it up and bursts into colorful flowers.
The body of the Earth is a forest: springtime, fragrant. Insects buzz, grasses sprout, buds burst, life is born in every nook and cranny.
The body of the Earth is a plowed field. Machines plow it, chemicals pollute it, never letting it rest—it must produce, produce.
The body of the Earth is a snow-covered winter field. It sleeps in silence. It dreams, but no one knows what of. Perhaps not even itself.
The body of the Earth is a rainforest. Humid, pulsating, mysterious and vibrant, with exciting sounds and unpredictable noises.
The body of the Earth is a rocky mountain ridge and an untouched tropical island, a creature suffocating under the asphalt of the city and the sun glistening on the waves of the sea.
The body of the Earth is the land of my body.
It bears the traces of the past: visible on the surface and invisible in the depths.
The traces of when it was used and abused. The traces of when it was cared for and loved. It exists between machines and people, and longs to encounter everything that lives.
It longs to meet me.
It longs for me to turn to it with sincere curiosity. To hear what it has to say.
To finally see it not as a servant, but as a queen.
Body of my body, body of the Earth, how long must you wait…?
