I often talk with the Prairiewoods Land, in my own way. Not so much in human words, but with footsteps and breath. With the occasional wow and ah-ha, spoken in surprised delight. I’ve just seen the white buds of wild rose—a new development. I’ve stepped on forest ground, softened by moles and I feel the ease on the bottoms of my feet. Kindness on my foot soles. “Wow ...” I say through a smile.
The Land answers me back: sometimes in whispers of wind, or exclamations of thunder, or with the many-part-harmony of birdsong. Then there is an occasional low croak of frogs in the evening, a chorus among pond water and reeds—the perfect Vespers prayer. We are talking, praying, laughing—all of us—with and of the Land. We are in conversation. In many ways. Always and forever.
It is early June and the greens are luscious and alive. It has just rained and Dry Creek is telling a story, pregnant with kicking waters. I am walking with a group of new friends—we’re our way to see Grandmother Oak, and the woman beside me speaks gleefully, pointing a ways down the creek. We all look to see in the distance a mother doe is crossing the water. She is swimming. Her tiny new fawn behind her. We are surprised and delighted by this, our breathe caught, all of us speaking our own version of “wow,” our eyes wide with wordless prayer. You can do it, we are with you, you’ll make it across. And just like that, they are safe on the other side. Together. Strong. Telling the Land all about the journey.
I want to tell the Land, but the Land already knows. I want to tell Grandmother Oak when we get there, but She already knows. I even want to tell Dry Creek, but the creek already knows what she’s carried, what’s she’s given, what she’s blessed.
—Angie Pierce Jennings, Prairiewoods hosted groups and hospitality coordinator