"Every Morning the World is Created" by Lucy Campbell

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 “Put your ear to the earth and you’ll hear the mountain speak of gods and ghosts. Press your skin to the bark of this old tree and you’ll learn of the strange shadow that once passed over this place.

Come as a pilgrim, offer silence as you climb, and you might just hear a welcome from the earth.”

‘Yōkoso. I am Black Wing Mountain.’ ”

I want to share a story with you all, one that has stayed with me, deepened over time, and shifted how I understand the place I live and our connection to the earth. 

It began the summer when my oldest daughter Lucia turned 3, up in Alaska, when we were strolling through the woods. A while back, someone asked me to pose a simple question to her: “What do the trees say?” So there we were, surrounded by towering spruce and birch, with the wind threading through their branches. I turned to Lucia, curious, and asked, “What do the trees say?” She paused, and pressed her ear to the trunk of a big spruce,  then with the conviction only a child can have, she answered, “Mama.” A word so simple, yet it seemed to carry the weight of the earth in it. I carried that moment with me, unsure of its meaning until much later.

A few Months passed, and I returned home, still struggling to feel fully at home in this high, arid desert. One day, I set out for a hike with my friend Layla, who has studied Ayurveda and now works at the Ayurvedic Institute. She’s one of those people who feels connected to something deeper—a healer, grounded in her wisdom. As we walked, Layla told me about Parvati, the goddess of the mountains and the earth, and how she had been praying for guidance. She spoke of her own practice of asking Parvati for strength and wisdom, especially when trying to ground herself in this landscape.

I shared with her my own unease, my struggle to feel connected to this place I now call home. This desert sprawling city can be difficult, especially when you are new to town and yearning for a deeper sense of belonging. But Layla reminded me that it’s the earth herself who holds the key to that connection. She encouraged me to keep hiking, to listen, to walk with the earth as a way of finding that belonging.

As we continued hiking, Layla whispered a prayer to Parvati, asking for a sign, something to help us feel that the earth was listening. Just then, a gust of wind rose up, strong and sudden, swirling the desert dust around us in a whirlwind. At that exact moment, Lucia, who had been walking ahead of us, stopped and sat down in the dirt, her tiny body still, her ear pressed to the ground as if listening to something deep beneath the surface.

It was then that I remembered the question from months before, the one about the trees. This time, I knelt down beside her and asked, “Lulu, what does the earth say?”

She paused, head still resting on the ground, and then looked up at me with her wide, serious eyes and said, “It says God.”

Layla and I exchanged glances, not sure whether to laugh or cry, and then we laughed—this deep, joyous laugh that seemed to rise up from the earth itself. Lucia, with her mischievous grin, laughed too, as if she had just shared some cosmic secret. I asked her again just to be sure, “What does the earth say?”

This time she pressed her ear back to the dirt and said it louder, “GOD!”

It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks. Here was this child, this little being, tapping into something so ancient and profound, as if the earth had whispered directly into her ear. It was more than a moment of childlike wonder. It was a reminder from the Divine or however you name it.

As we walked on, Layla paused to make an offering to Parvati, a small gesture of gratitude. She scattered prasad, her sacred offering, onto the ground, giving back to the earth that had given us so much in that moment. Lucia watched intently and then asked for the empty bag. When Layla handed it to her, Lucia sat down again, scooping up handfuls of dirt and filling the bag to the brim. When she was done, she handed it to me, her face serious, her hands outstretched. “Here, Mama,” she said, “God”

And there it was—this small, simple act, this bag of earth cradled in her hands. A gift, a reminder, a connection to something greater.

God holds the high desert. God holds us all.

In that moment, I understood. The earth speaks, if we listen. She carries the weight of our lives, our joys, our struggles, our need for belonging. And in return, all she asks is that we remember her, that we care for her. That we press our ear to the ground and hear her voice, echoing back to us: “You are held. You are home.”

With Love,

Shirley Jo,
evanhealy holistic esthetician