It is her story we tell, not our own. Not that of kings, queens, lords or ladies. Not that of villains, foes, conquerors, or knaves. It is the true majesty we all meet and are faced with each day. Unlike anything else we will ever meet in our lives or strive to describe or hasten to know better. More than genus, more than invention, more than riches, more than adventure. Her life is laid out in every article we propose. Every narrative written, every carving engraved, every scroll dutifully kept, every account of number kept, every note of musical promptness as an indication of each civilization. She is our mother, she is our provider, she is our splendid fortress among the shores of the heavens. She is majesty, she is our earth.
The scourge of every king who dares to possess her. The historical record of their conquests and failures. The chaste maiden who no man can ever own nor take anything from for their own keeping. The challenger of courageous explorers whose restless minds dare to know her more intimately. The methodical muse of every writer who entreats themselves to describe her endless bounties of beauty with both joy and sorrow. Whether by day, in the open face of the sun where her offspring of creation still gather in cooling shades of lush green trees to find their rest, or schools of splendidly scaled fish swarm beneath cool ripples of nourishing waters, as deer skittishly lead their young in the gentleness of early morn for a drink of life giving water from a stream, creek or river, as grasshoppers spring into the air to move across silent fields of long stem flowers swept by passing breezes. Or whether by night in all its deeply moving shades of light as sun says goodnight painting sky in plum, then fading through dark purples antagonizing romantic minds, seducing melancholy memories among lost desires of wishful moments now long past. Dauntingly daring the unknown noises of deep dark corners of a forest to embody deceitful beasts to keep children tucked safely sound in beds near warm hearths and tender hands, while their young minds wonder about the stars above them keeping watch over their existence here.
It is her story we tell, not our own, her majesty. The prevailing jewel of us all. Of every nation, every creed, every color, every known tongue and mind alike. Those long past, those now among her heritage and those who will visit her just as we have. It is her story we tell in the sands of extensive deserts where she heats her needed sands to distribute to distant lands in order to replenish both plain, hill and mountain as the stories of the people have fed the imaginations of millions with legends of slaves and sultans. It is her story we tell in the snow capped mountains she gently presses into her bosom to hold fast her never ending need of growth, reshaping sea shelves, tugging waves to further distance where ships and boats search out sustenance and sustainability. Their captains and chaplains facing tyrannical winds who regrets their strong passing but are unable to deter those who demandingly push forward, seasoned and prepared for the own providence as interpreted by their ancestral deities, priests and wizards, scryers and soothsayers, who have scaled glaciers of frozen waters that she keeps in her bodice for her balance amidst the constant motion of her eager spirit. Surrounded by her royal siblings, protectors of her holy court, giving prominence to her singular capabilities to embody all creatures great or small in an external expression of her own life among the atmospheres of her creators as they hold their vigilance over her safe keeping. Unafraid of her magnificence, eagerly observing her continuation as loyal servants within her presence among them. It is her story they write. Her story they conduct, encouraging her longevity, idly admiring her strength and enthusiasm as carefree as her orbit which beckons her to continue, knowing that one day the sun who gives her all that she is will one day call her into itself and she will go, unafraid, happily into her families keeping.
It is her story we tell. Not that of a calloused king hell bent on his own recognitions, reaped from works he never performed, not that of an angered trembling princess in demand of her crowning jewels to display her self proclaimed sovereign righteousness. Not that of mammoth swordsmen or physic scientists who have plundered her coffers for knowledge to both heal and destroy us all. It is her, Earth’s story, that we tell. Her splendor that compels every human heart, no matter how great or small, to look upon her as she is, unhidden, profoundly present. It is her life we chronicle in a never ending need to make our mark upon her so as not to be forgotten as part of her history, in minuscule moments where we are both her eager children and her old wisdoms as she cares for us all and implores us to love her as she is. Her age is infinite and we here are so very fleeting. It is her story we tell. Our hostess of humanity, our forbearance within our indifference, our patience among hostilities, our author of all works of art. She giggles as we dare to command her, as a mother would her smallest child. She detours us from our own demises, she holds us in her arms of safety and cradles us all in her keeping. While stories of her anger, her sickness, her mutilations, her instability spread rampantly across her corset in vibrant green plains where her wheat springs forth in its season to cool the dirt floor beneath it and her corns stretch their ears to hear her voice in whispers among the leaves like gossiping grandpas as she sighs deeply in contentment knowing of their silliness. Herself well and whole capable of mending herself in spite of our alterations better than ever we could, unafraid of what rumor we would spread, undeniably accurate in her own being, knowing that at our greatest attempts to become her un-renounced champion, her most noble stewards, her most prominent members of existence, all will vanish one day leaving her as she is. Only she will remain in the end. Only she will remember her own ballads, only she will adequately describe her own successes, only she will be the narrator of her own travels through the quanta realities of all of her days. It is her story we tell. Her majesty, our Earth.
