(listed as April 21) Parilia/Earth Day/ Egyptian Day
The festival of the Roman pastoral deity, Pales, known as the Parilia, included decoration sheepfolds with green branches; kindling fires, through whose smoke the animals were driven; and offering milk and cakes to the divinity. In more recent times, it has become Early Day, when people remember their responsibility toward the environment.
— The Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”
— John Muir, Our National Parks
(John Muir’s birthday is April 21)
“Nature” is what we see —
The Hill — the Afternoon —
Squirrel — Eclipse — the Bumble bee —
Nay — Nature is Heaven —
Nature is what we hear —
The Bobolink — the Sea —
Thunder — the Cricket —
Nay — Nature is Harmony —
Nature is what we know —
Yet have no art to say —
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
— Emily Dickinson, 668
You are the future — Rilke
You are the future, the immense morning sky
turning red over the prairies of eternity.
You are the rooster-crow after the night of time,
the dew, the early devotions, and the Daughter,
the Guest, the Ancient Mother, and Death.
You are the shape that changes its own shape,
that climbs out of fate, towering,
that which is never shouted for, and never mourned for,
and no more explored than a savage wood.
You are the meaning deepest inside things,
that never reveals the secret of its owner.
And you you look depends on where we are:
from a boat you are shore, from the shore a boat.
“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.”
— John Muir, My First Summer In the Sierra
The wind, one brilliant day — Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
“In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.”
“I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.”
“Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.”
The wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
“What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”
“Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
Move to an infant drinking milk,
To a child on solid food,
To a searcher after wisdom,
To a hunter of more invisible game.
Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say, ‘The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
And orchards in bloom.
At night there are millions of galaxies,
And in sunlight the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.’
You ask the embryo why he, or she,
Stays cooped up in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer.
‘There is no ‘other world.’
I only know what I’ve experienced.
You must be hallucinating.’”
Your job is to go to the place that you want to stop at every day because the trees tell you too. That’s your job: to leave in time to be able to stop there near the trees. And let them tell you the story of the storms they endured, the drought, the spring, the cold. And it’s all about being in that place where you can feel it all. Not one thing but it all.
They can tell you how to do lots of things if you listen very closely.