earth of forgiveness & healing (erin jean warde)

I trust the roots I wish to plant will offer me a new sacred ground. And I pray I plant them with the fervor of sweetgrass, so I can live on the landscape of forgiveness and healing.

Today’s art is “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Stephen Stum.

earth of forgiveness & healing

Time is not a river running inexorably to the sea, but the sea itself—its tides that appear and disappear, the fog that rises to become rain in a different river. All things that were will come again. In the way of linear time, you might hear Nanabozho’s stories as mythic lore of history, a recounting of the long-ago past and how things came to be. But in circular time, these stories are both history and prophecy, stories for a time yet to come. If time is a turning circle, there is a place where history and prophecy converge—the footprints of First Man lie on the path behind us and on the path ahead.

I was already thinking about time — specifically how my life has fit into it — when I read this week’s chapters. To give you a short history: I was born in Montgomery, AL and lived there for the first 18 years of my life. Upon graduating from high school, I moved a mere hour south, to go to Troy University.

After Troy, I moved to Austin, TX to pursue my Master of Divinity. After 3 years in the same apartment, I moved to Waco, TX, to serve Baylor/St. Paul’s. Next, I moved to Dallas, TX to serve as Associate Rector at Transfiguration, and during my time in Dallas I lived in an apartment for one year, then a condo for 2. Leaving Dallas, I moved to Ada, OK where I lived in a house for 2 years.

At the very beginning of COVID, I moved here — to Austin, TX. I lived in a condo for 2 years, before moving about a year ago into my current apartment. And my most recent news is that I am moving to Nashville in July.

In summary: Moving in July will mark my 8th move in 14 years. Y’all, I am tired.

There are times when I love the idea of a transitory life — like when I’ve watched too many “van life” TikToks — but now I know in my soul that what I really want is to put down roots. To stop moving, in body, soul, and home.

What happens when we truly become native to a place, when we finally make a home? Where are the stories that lead the way? If time does in fact eddy back on itself, maybe the journey of the First Man will provide footsteps to guide the journey of the Second.

For quite some time, I had a scarcity feeling about putting down roots. Won’t I get bored of things? But look, there are so many places to explore! What if I miss out on something? Is there such thing as a place I could call home? And, to be vulnerable: Do I have what it takes to have a home? Will I ever be able to afford owning a physical home? (Recognizing home is far more than walls.)

As for now, the scarcity feeling is still around. I hear it from time to time, but I’ve learned how to turn down the volume a bit. I am trying to give hope pride of place — Hope that maybe Nashville becomes the earth that will receive my haggard roots. Hope that I will always, no matter my location, find excitement in the mundane. Hope that any roots I put down will become home base for continued adventures. Hope that there’s no such thing as having what it takes to make a home, because we are all worthy of sacred spaces of rest, so we are born with exactly what it takes. And hope that I will either have the money to afford a physical home, or be given the blessing of remembering the shelter of God cannot be contained by walls.

Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection ‘species loneliness’—a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from the loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors.

In so many ways, I love that I have moved around. The places where I’ve lived have provided gifts I could not find anywhere else. If given the chance to live my past differently, I would not. I would go to each of these places, get to know each of these people, and receive the wisdom of these varying states of home.

So my movement forward is not to think negatively of my past, but to mark a change of pace. Yes, I trod this path forward out of gratitude for how my past movement will now inevitably teach me to be still. Because I can move every year of my life for the rest of it, or I can stay in the same space until I breathe my last, and either way: I still might find myself with deep, unnamed sadness, the same estrangement from Creation.

Because I can make a life out of exploring, and ignore the new beauties in front of me. And I can dedicate myself to a life of standing on the same earth, and forget to thank that earth, even though it would be so faithful to stay underneath me.

A path scented with sweetgrass leads to a landscape of forgiveness and healing for all who need it. She doesn’t give her gift only to some.

And I can dedicate my heart and life to movement, but know that every inching forth is not just journeying, but holy pilgrimage. And I can faithfully place my roots in the earth, but adorn her with sweetgrass.

My movement has brought me into holiness, and I also pray it comes to, not its end, but its fruition. I trust the roots I wish to plant will offer me a new sacred ground. And I pray I plant them with the fervor of sweetgrass, so I can live on the landscape of forgiveness and healing — because I think the earth of forgiveness and healing is what I have heard calling me home all along.

Being naturalized to a place means to live as if this is the land that feeds you, as if these are the streams from which you drink, that build your body and fill your spirit. To become naturalized is to know that your ancestors lie in this ground. Here you will give your gifts and meet your responsibilities. To become naturalized is to live as if your children’s future matters, to take care of the land as if our lives and the lives of all our relatives depend on it. Because they do.

I do not know what my future will hold. We might laugh when we look back at this. In 10 years I might be so far from Nashville this reads like pure lunacy. But, I’ve never known what my future will hold; I’ve only ever stepped forth.

The difference now is that I know I’m trying to step toward solid ground, because I believe standing on that sacred ground will usher me into my deepest exploration, because it will be the land of my healing. I believe standing still might allow the Spirit to move evermore in my life.

A teacher comes, they say, when you are ready. And if you ignore its presence, it will speak to you more loudly. But you have to be quiet to hear.

Teacher, I am listening. Quiet me, that I may learn. Amen.

With love & care,
EJW

I hope you are enjoying Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

I’ll be back next week with a reflection on pages 241-292.