Write down the first words that comes to mind when we say . . .
. . . home.
. . . soil.
. . . rain.
Home. Abode. Shelter. I can see myself with stretched legs and arms on an old bed by the side of a window, with some settled dust on the sill – relaxed and stuck like me, reluctant to move. It is a place where I can move comfortably whether it is dark or not. Every corner is like a memory, every space is a co-ordinate of me and my loved ones – walking around even if they are long gone. Home is just another dimension of me – built with the bones of wood and stone and covered in a skin of concrete – breathing and living with memories. I carry it wherever I go and I am still in it even when I am gone.
The soil beneath my home is my mother – holding all of us – our weight and hopes – carrying us from past to future without a tremor. It is the bed I have to embrace one day. I come from it and I will go in it and become a lump of dirt feeding a plant or a tree and transforming along the way. It carries the lost footprints of youth and will create impressions of my old age with timeless love and support.
This soil is damp and cohesive – held by water that falls from the sky as a divine message – the rain. It feeds us, floats us through dreams and disappointments and makes us human. An ornament of nature, it is what makes our world wondrous and diverse. It is the DNA of our universe – indestructible as cosmos yet impermanent as life.
Home, Soil, Water – by themselves they may be not much but it is their love of co-existence and combination that makes us complete and possible. These create a heaven to live, nurture and cherish and I exist because these do.