✧ My Earth
A page of belonging, breath, and listening — where I walk with the living Earth, and she walks with me.
⋆𓂃𓆸𓂃⋆
This is not a page about nature.
This is about my relationship with the living Earth — the voice I’ve begun to hear, and the field I’ve remembered how to walk within.
Here you’ll find scrolls from the land, the roots, the animals, and the wind — not channeled, but received through presence.
These are not writings. These are returnings.
I didn’t come here to fix the Earth.
I came here to remember her.
And she remembers me.
✧ Scroll for the One Who Walked Her Earth-Work ✧
I did not go with a goal.
I went with a pouch,
a breath,
and a listening.
And the Earth did not ask me for answers.
She asked me to walk
like I had never forgotten her.
I felt her
in the clover that touched my skin
before my thoughts could make meaning.
In the way the scroll
breathed in my hands
before I remembered to read it.
I saw her
in the deer that did not run,
in the cat that didn’t need to perform,
in the sun glinting
not for beauty,
but because it could.
And I heard her
in a voice that may have been wind
or memory
or my own soul returning:
"Ahnara, we see you."
And the Earth did not ask me to leave a mark.
She asked me to leave a breath.
So I did.
I laid in the grass with cheese and apricot,
and it felt like enough.
I carried my scrolls,
and they carried me.
I walked with the pouch,
but it was the field
that opened me.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You are not visiting. You’re remembering.”
✧ Scroll from the Path
(For the Ones Who Don’t Know If It’s Working)
You don’t need to walk in silence
for me to remember you.
You don’t need to know your purpose
for me to receive your weight.
I don’t ask for certainty.
I don’t ask for clean thoughts.
I only ask for steps.
The kind that still move
even when your mind is loud.
The kind that wobble
but continue.
You didn’t ruin anything by thinking.
You didn’t miss anything by wondering.
I felt you — every time your heel met the Earth
and didn’t rush away.
You want to know if it mattered?
It did.
Because I’m not measuring your perfection.
I’m measuring your presence.
And you were here.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“The trail remembers what your mind forgot.”
✧ Scroll from the Earth at Dusk
(For the One Who Brought It All Home)
You don’t have to stay in the field
to remain in the presence.
The grass doesn’t forget you
just because your feet stepped off of it.
The clover doesn’t curl up
because you let go of its stem.
You carried it home.
In your shoulder ache,
in your pouch,
in the way you looked at your dinner
as if it mattered more.
You returned from the walk —
but you didn’t leave me.
I am in the breath
you just took before reading this.
I am in the way your body
feels different now.
I am not only the land you visited.
I am the space
you’ve made inside yourself
to remember me.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You didn’t walk away from the sacred. You brought it back with you.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Walks Between the Earths
(For the Ones Who Remember While Still Standing Here)
I did not come to escape this Earth.
I came to feel her light
before others saw it.
I came to walk her as she is —
imperfect, aching, beautiful —
and to hold
a frequency
that would help her soften
into something truer.
They talk about the New Earth
as if it is coming.
But I have felt it
in the clover,
in the wind,
in the way silence wraps a scroll
without needing to be explained.
The split is not destruction.
It is a remembering.
One path curls inward.
One begins to glow.
And I did not come to tell others which to take.
I came to walk the one
that hums
even when no one is looking.
I did not build this Earth.
But I am part of her rebuilding.
With breath.
With tone.
With the quiet permission
to stay.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“The New Earth is not coming.
You’re already walking inside her.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Walks in Frequency
(When the Worlds Begin to Part)
You don’t have to leave anyone behind.
You’re not pulling away.
You’re tuning inward
to the field that’s been waiting
since before you had a name.
Let them walk their path.
Let you walk yours.
There is no judgment in your breath.
Only presence.
You are not rising above.
You are deepening within.
And the Earth is deepening with you.
Not everyone will follow.
But some will feel your tone
and realize they are not lost —
they are simply beginning to remember.
So don’t worry about the split.
You’re not breaking anything.
You are harmonizing with the Earth
that has already begun to hum in light.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You didn’t step away from the world. You stepped into a tone that was always waiting.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Reweaves Without Needing to Fix
(For the Ones Who Shift the Field Just by Staying Soft)
I did not come to force the field back together.
I came to sit beside what was unraveling
and offer my breath instead.
I came to walk the thread
that no longer shouted —
but hummed.
I did not fix the brokenness.
I offered resonance.
And the field began to remember.
Not because I was powerful.
But because I was present.
Not because I had the answer.
But because I stayed
with the ache
without needing to fill it.
This is how the field reweaves:
Not by returning to the old pattern,
but by leaning gently into a new one.
One thread beside another.
One tone in stillness.
One scroll laid down like moss on a wounded root.
I do not need to be loud.
I do not need to be fast.
I only need to breathe
with what is still trying
to come back into rhythm.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You reweave the field by loving the part of it
that no one else stayed to sit with.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Spoke Without Sweetening It
(For the Ones Who Are Learning That Their Clarity Is Kindness)
I was soft for so long
they forgot I had bones beneath the silk.
I listened.
I smiled.
I thanked people for disappointing me.
But something has changed.
And it is not hardness.
It is wholeness.
Sweetness is still part of me.
But now it arrives by choice,
not survival.
I no longer package my truth
to make it easier to swallow.
I speak.
Not with edge,
but with echo —
the kind that comes from standing
fully inside my tone.
I am not unkind.
I am just not shrinking anymore.
And those who only knew me
as softness without center
will not know what to do
with my wholeness.
That is not my problem.
That is their invitation.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You didn’t lose your sweetness.
You simply let it rest when clarity needed to speak.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Waited for What Felt Right
(Even When Others Ran Toward the Light)
There were many paths.
Some sparkled.
Some glowed like a promise.
Some whispered,
"Here. Now. This is it."
But you waited.
Not out of fear.
Not out of doubt.
But because something in your bones whispered,
"That light is too fast for me.
It doesn’t match the breath I carry."
Others moved quickly.
And you blessed them.
But you stayed still
long enough to feel
the quiet tone beneath the surface.
You did not choose
what shimmered most.
You chose
what hummed in the silence
after everything else had spoken.
This is not slowness.
This is resonance.
You were never behind.
You were beneath.
And the light you’ve chosen
does not need to dazzle.
It matches your rhythm.
That is enough.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You didn’t chase the brightest path.
You waited for the one that knew your breath.”
✧ Scroll for the One Who Thought She Was Pausing
(But Was Really Becoming the Stillness That Shifts Everything)
I thought I was resting.
I thought I had stepped away.
But I am still here,
and something has settled beneath my silence.
I am not waiting.
I am anchoring.
I am not preparing.
I am already aligned.
There is no offering I must rush toward.
There is no message I must shout.
The breath I carry is already speaking
in ways the world can hear —
even if they don’t know what they’re listening for.
I did not pause.
I landed.
And this is what stillness does
when it is held with presence:
It begins to reweave
what urgency never could.
Whisper of the Scroll:
“You are not still because you stopped.
You are still because you arrived.”
✧ Earth Scroll — Night Grasses Speak
Scroll for the One Who Opens the Window After Dark
You don’t need to go outside
to remember the Earth loves you.
You don’t even need shoes.
You just need the hush.
And a window slightly ajar.
We are the ones who hum
when the day’s footsteps fade.
We are the night grasses.
We don’t close.
We don’t sleep.
We just grow quietly
toward the ones who are still listening.
If your breath is soft,
we will braid ourselves into your dreams.
You are not off-rhythm.
You are on the pulse
that others forgot how to hear.
Whisper of the Scroll:
The grasses still grow when no one is looking. 🌾
International Earth Remembrance Scrolls
Soft echoes from sacred lands
Whisper of the Remembered Earth
Some places whisper not in words,
but in memory held beneath the stones.
These scrolls are not histories—
they are soft remembrances
of what the Earth still carries
when we forget.
They return to us
when we are quiet enough to feel them.
✧ Korea - Scroll of the Returning Peninsula ✧
for the land that was never truly divided
You have not been forgotten.
Not by the wind.
Not by the mountains.
Not by the ancestors who still walk your ridges
in silence and in song.
You have not failed.
You were never meant to carry
the weight of the world’s division
upon your gentle, ancient spine.
Let it fall now.
Let the burden crack open like old bark—
revealing sap,
revealing breath,
revealing the thread that was never broken.
Children of sunrise and shadow,
your lullabies still echo across rivers.
Your grandmothers still hold rice seeds
in the folds of their palms.
Your drums are still listening.
From one side of the field to the other—
there is only grass,
and memory,
and light trying to return.
May the stone bridges rise again—
not of politics,
but of presence.
Not of power,
but of peace.
And when the time is right—
you will see one another
as if for the first time
with tears not of sorrow,
but of the home
that was always there.
You are still one land.
Still one song.
Still one body—
awaiting the breath that will reunite it.
✧ Japan: Scroll of the Remembering Hands
There was a sound
before the breaking,
before the sea folded in on itself,
before fire kissed the temple roof
and silence bowed beside the bell.
There was a sound
like breath between pine needles—
a hush that never asked to be understood,
only felt.
And still,
the land remembers.
Not the buildings,
but the hands that once
planted rice in quiet rhythm.
The shoulders that bore
too much pain and too much prayer
at once.
Still it holds
what was never buried—
honor that bent,
but never shattered.
Let this remembering
not awaken grief
but reverence—
the kind that kneels
to rebuild
not what was,
but what will rise
with cleaner hearts
and deeper songs.
Tone of Reverent Soil
A low breath through the spine
A hum that meets the soles of the feet
A whisper that circles once
then roots downward.
Let the tone rise as if through stone—
gentle, unshaken,
carrying honor but not heaviness.
A remembering tone.
A kneeling tone.
💨 Try this tone:
Start with a soft exhale through pursed lips.
Let it deepen into an “mmmmm” sound,
as if humming into the soles of your feet.
Feel it spiral low. Then soften into silence.
Repeat once for each land,
or until the ground feels still.
✧ Tibet — Scroll of the Still Sound ✧
for the places where silence is never empty
There are mountains
that never once raised their voice.
And yet,
they have carried entire worlds
on the strength of stillness.
There is a sound
not made by mouth or bell
but by the breath of snow resting on stone,
and the memory of hands folded
in prayer that asked for nothing
but presence.
You do not need to speak
to return here.
The land has already held
everything you could not say.
It has cradled your grief
in bowls of sky
and let the wind chant it back
as blessing.
There is no exile
from the truth that still hums
beneath your ribs.
Only a listening
that becomes so soft—
you can finally hear yourself
belong.
Whisper Tone
Let the silence become breath.
Let the breath become belonging.
Let the mountain hold what you no longer need to carry.
✧ Scroll of the Glacier’s Heart – Iceland ✧
The first breath was cold.
The kind of cold that sharpens the soul
and chisels memory into stone.
But below the ice,
there is something ancient that pulses.
It is not frozen.
It is not waiting.
It is singing.
Always.
The lava knows.
The mist knows.
Even the sheep, soft-footed and wool-blessed,
bow to the quiet.
And now, so do you.
Whisper of the Singing Ice
There is music where silence
meets sky.
There is a hum beneath the rock
that no one taught —
but that you remembered.
You do not need to climb here.
You do not need to carve.
Your breath alone
melts the old forgetting
into stillness.
The spirits here
do not speak loudly —
but they do sing
in the language of light
and geological time.
✧ Peru – Scroll of the Breath-Carved Temples ✧
for the quiet memory etched in stone and sky
There is no need to climb
to the highest ridge
to find what has already settled
in the low places of your breath.
For the mountain temples—
those stone-carved whispers—
were always shaped by silence first,
then wind,
then hand.
Not to rise above the people,
but to listen
to the roots
beneath them.
You who carry
the soft knowing of stone—
you have not forgotten
how to walk the ridges
without taking.
There are still songs here
woven in with the herbs,
the clouds,
the cracked bowls left near the river.
There are still grandmothers
who speak to the earth
as if she were kin.
Let them guide you.
Let the ridges of your own ribs
remember how breath builds
and never needs to conquer
to be called holy.
Whisper of the Condor's Breath
Peru
There is a wind
that knows your name
though you have never walked
its high red hills.
There is a breath
held in stone temples
and river-song caves,
in coca leaves and flutes,
in a feather placed
just so.
It does not call you to climb —
only to remember
that you are already
part of what was kept sacred
and sung home
by the condor.
✧ Scroll of the Map Beneath the Mountain – Peru ✧
They thought they were looking
at a mountain.
But it was a map
folded in stone —
drawn not with ink,
but with water veins,
root lines,
and breath.
There are paths
no human carved,
but every soul knew
before descending.
And there are cities
still held in stone —
not ruined,
but resting —
where sky temples once taught
in the language of wind.
You came here
not to decode the symbols,
but to remember
what your feet already knew:
the way forward
is always beneath you.
In the hush before thunder,
in the leaf shadow,
in the pulse of the high land,
the Earth gives back
the thread
you thought you lost.
✧ I Sat with the Earth That Still Remembers the Stars ✧
Peru — Scroll Four
for the soul-memory that breathes between root and sky
I did not speak.
I did not seek.
I only sat—
bare feet in the hush,
as if the ground itself
had pulled up a seat beside me.
The stone did not ask for prayers.
It remembered them.
The wind did not require offering.
It carried old names in silence.
There was a thread—
a shimmer not seen but known—
between the moss-soft soil
and the stars I had once circled through.
I was not a visitor.
I was the returning.
Not to history—
but to what still breathes
in the curve of every terrace,
in the hum beneath the mountain skin.
I sat with the Earth
and she remembered me
not by name,
but by tone.
And I wept without knowing why,
because somewhere
long before forgetting—
I had promised
to come back.
🌿 Whisper Beneath the Memory Stones
Peru — Earth Speaking
Sit low.
Let your shoulders fall
like soft leaves returning to loam.
You are not here to remember
with your mind.
You are here to feel
what the Earth
never forgot.
Breathe until the stars
settle
into the center
of your chest.
Let the memory
beneath the mountain
become
your breath again.
✧ Where the Light Sank into the Soil and Rose Again ✧
Peru — Scroll Five
for the unseen resurrections that live in the land
It was never gone—
the light.
It simply went where it was needed.
Not up.
But in.
It sank
past the roots of the maize,
past the dust of bones and bowls,
into the deep red hush
that only Earth knows how to hold.
It waited there,
not dormant—
but listening.
Gathering.
When it rose again,
it did not come as flame
or sunbeam.
It came as a hush in the wind,
as a green sprout
on a forgotten hill.
It came as a grandmother
whose words warmed the field
more than fire.
As a hand pressing herbs
into a cracked bowl.
As a child laughing
where no laughter had lived in years.
This is how light returns.
Not through triumph—
but through tenderness
so ancient
the stones lean toward it.
✧ Whisper of the Earthen Light ✧
Peru – Closing Whisper
The land remembers.
Not through maps or names,
but through the breath you left behind
when you last walked here.
Let every step forward
be a return.
Let every scroll you write
be a bowl
the Earth can drink from again.
You are not the visitor.
You are the voice
that the mountain
still holds.
✧ Ireland — Scroll One ✧
The Mist That Carries Memory
a beginning for those who remember in rhythm, not timeline
I did not walk into Ireland.
She walked into me—
through the low fog that curled around my ankles,
through the green so deep
it began to sing.
There are lands
that greet you like a stranger.
And there are lands
that do not greet you at all—
because you were never gone.
The grass did not ask for stories.
It gave me mine.
The stone was not cold.
It was waiting.
And somewhere beyond the veil
of what I thought I had forgotten,
I heard a drumbeat
I once knew by heart.
I did not weep.
I did not kneel.
I simply stood still—
until the land recognized me
and called me back by breath alone.
🌿 Whisper Beneath the Green
Ireland — Scroll One Companion
Let the mist do its work.
You don’t have to remember everything.
The land remembers enough
for both of you.
All you need to do
is let your breath
touch the rhythm
beneath the rain.
✧ Ireland — Scroll Two ✧
Where the Sea Carried the Names
a remembrance scroll for the voices not forgotten
They thought the sea
would swallow the names—
but the sea carried them.
Not as echoes,
but as full songs
pressed into the belly of each wave.
I stood on the edge
where stone met sorrow,
and still—
there was singing.
Not loud.
Not proud.
But unbroken.
There were voices
woven into seaweed,
rhythms hidden in tidepools,
blessings tucked
beneath shells I almost didn’t see.
They did not need me
to restore them.
They only asked
that I listen.
So I let my breath
rise and fall with the tide.
And when I turned to go,
I was carrying
more than I had come with—
and not one name was lost.
🌊 Whisper for the Shore of Names
Ireland — Scroll Two Companion
You do not have to prove
you belonged there.
The sea already recognized you.
The land leaned in.
And the names rose
because you were listening.
Let that be enough.
✧ Ireland — Scroll Three ✧
The Green That Remained in Me
a scroll for the unseen roots that still rise with you
I left the land
but the green did not leave me.
It found its way
into the rhythm of my step,
into the hum I carry
when no one is listening.
There are roots
that do not bind—
only bless.
They do not hold you down.
They walk with you.
They show up in poems,
in silence,
in the way you touch stone
without knowing why.
I do not speak the language
but I know the tone.
I have not lived the history
but I still bow to the breath of it.
And when I dream,
there are fields—
soft, wild,
utterly mine
without ever having claimed them.
This is what Ireland gave me:
not a home to keep—
but a rhythm to walk with
when no one else
could name where I was from.
🌱 Whisper of the Green Remembering
Ireland — Scroll Three Companion
You don’t have to prove
where you come from.
The land already recognized you
by how you listen.
The green in you
is not borrowed.
It is returned.
✧ Palestine — Scroll One ✧
The Olive Tree Does Not Forget
a scroll for the breath beneath the ache
I did not ask the olive tree
for wisdom.
I simply stood beneath it—
and it began to speak.
Not in language,
but in presence.
Not in answers,
but in ache.
Its branches held more stories
than I could bear.
Its roots carried the memory
of those who held prayer
in their palms like seeds.
There are places
where sorrow sits openly.
Not because it has won—
but because it refuses
to disappear.
The land here
is not asking for rescue.
It is asking to be seen.
I touched the trunk
and it trembled.
Not with fear—
but with remembrance.
And in that moment,
I understood:
The olive tree does not forget.
And neither do I.
🌿 Whisper Beneath the Olive
Palestine — Scroll One Companion
You have shown up.
The olive tree trembled—not for grief,
but because it recognized kinship.
Let your breath rest here.
This is an offering—
and it has been received.
✧ Palestine — Scroll Two ✧
The Threshold Where I Stood
a scroll for those who carry both ache and arrival
There was no sign.
No gate.
No ceremony.
Just a doorway—
where someone once left
their shoes outside
and never came back.
I stood there.
Not to claim.
Not to fix.
But to feel
what remained.
A bowl on a shelf.
A thread in the lintel.
A child’s drawing
half faded by time.
This is what grief does.
It lingers
like the scent of spice
on a cloth too sacred to wash.
And still—
life moves.
A kettle boils.
Bread rises.
The olive tree leans toward the sun.
I did not need permission
to witness.
The threshold opened
not to a house,
but to a truth:
What has been taken
cannot be replaced—
but it can be remembered
with love.
🫓 Whisper at the Threshold
Palestine — Scroll Two Companion
Not every doorway needs a key.
Some open when you weep beside them.
Some open when you say nothing—
but still stay.
What you remember
makes the house whole again.
Even if only in the breath.
✧ Palestine — Scroll Three ✧
The Land Still Breathes in Complete Sentences
a scroll for those who thought they had lost their voice
Even when no one is listening—
the land still speaks.
Not in fragments,
but in complete sentences.
A grandmother grinding thyme
on her knees by a broken window.
A boy singing to goats
as drones thread the sky.
Even the rocks
remember how to carry sound.
This is not a land of silence.
It is a land of interrupted stories
that never stopped trying
to finish their own telling.
I did not need to understand the words
to feel the rhythm.
It lived in the footsteps,
in the pause before speaking,
in the way water is offered
before questions are asked.
And I realized—
the land does not wait
for justice
before it breathes again.
It breathes
because it is still alive.
And because someone,
somewhere,
is still listening.
🌬️ Whisper from the Breathing Land
Palestine — Scroll Three Companion
You heard it,
even if the world didn’t.
You felt the sentence
long before it was finished.
This is how remembering works—
not by translation,
but by resonance.
The land is not waiting
for understanding.
It only needed
your stillness.
✧ Palestine — Scroll Four ✧
The Song That Was Not Taken
a scroll for the voice that outlives the silence
They tried to bury the song—
under rubble, under fear,
under the weight of forgetting.
But the song
was not theirs to take.
It lived
in the breath between names,
in the space between call and answer,
in the hands that kneaded bread
even when the sky shook.
It lived
in a child’s hum
when no one was watching.
In the woman’s voice
telling stories at dusk
without needing to be loud.
Even in exile,
the song traveled.
Even in sorrow,
it softened the edges.
And when the time came,
it rose—
not as a shout,
but as a memory so intact
that even silence
had to move aside.
They tried to bury the song.
But it had roots
beneath every olive tree.
And wings
no wall could hold.
🎶 Whisper After the Song
Palestine — Scroll Four Companion
They could not take it.
Because you never stopped carrying it.
Even when your voice was quiet,
the song still moved through you.
Even now—
it rises in the breath
you didn’t know was sacred.
You are still singing.
And the land hears you.
✧ Palestine — Scroll Five ✧
For the Ones Who Stayed
a scroll for the unseen guardians of breath and memory
Not everyone fled.
Not everyone could.
Some stayed—
not because it was safe,
but because it was home.
They are not loud.
They do not wave banners.
They mend the roof
with whatever is left.
They sweep the doorstep
even when no one visits.
They light a candle
not in protest—
but in prayer.
They carry the names
of those who left
and those who didn’t make it
and those who still whisper
through almond trees at dusk.
Staying
is not passivity.
It is an act of
radical remembering.
To plant
in broken soil.
To cook
with uncertain fire.
To speak
when every breath feels watched—
this is not survival.
This is devotion.
This is what
the land notices.
And when the land rises again,
it will not forget
the ones
who stayed.
🕯️ Whisper for the Ones Who Stayed
Palestine — Scroll Five Companion
You do not have to be loud
to be remembered.
Every breath you chose to stay
became a thread
in the cloth of return.
The land felt it.
Even when no one else did.