O Earth

Those of us gifted with a self-destructive pathology are often obsessed with the image of rebirth. The attraction to it is not in renewal, of course, but in the havoc that must precede it, a havoc to which we are inexorably drawn. We sink our claws into ourselves and pull off our skins, looking for the perfect stranger hiding in our guts. The stranger is never there. He has already been warped by the pain you have brought to him, and he huddles, as twisted and evil as you were when you started, in the life you yourself have broken. He cries and begins scratching, and soon it happens again. The stranger grows into your hateful self, over and over, flaying its crusted hide until it chokes on scar tissue and you are dead. That is your "rebirth". Rebirth is a scam and it's run by Hope.

Backpacking is the perfect activity for such as us. At first I had bought into the rebirth gimmick and thought that was what was happening to me in the woods. I know now it is much simpler. The venom reserved for myself flows instead into the great hill that rears above my head. I dig my talons into the hill and pull, drawing myself forward, each step a little universe of pain and glory. While I pull at the mud, the stranger inside me cries and I see, clearly for the first time, that it is a child, a perfect tiny child. It says thank you, o earth, for bearing this thing that would hurt and flense me. Thank you for your beauty and endurance. Thank you, thank you.