The Earth Speaks

By Bob Miller

The Earth Speaks to you. Her name is Suzanne. (Well, that will do for now.) Suzanne is the rich tapestry of life on this planet. She assumes the person and voice of a variety of beings to show you how rich the tapestry is and that you are a part of it. You can contemplate the passersby in a mall over a cup of coffee, and you can be a small crab marveling at another day of life in the salt marsh. You can be much more. This suggests a responsibility for protecting life, but it is also a joy in your own richness. It is yourself that you see around you.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595835737

Bob Miller

BOB MILLER is Nevada’s longest serving governor, holding office from 1989 to 1999. His son, Ross, who is named after his grandfather, is presently in his second term as Nevada’s secretary of state.

Book preview

SUZANNE AND THE OLD MAN 

I have always been here.

I will always wait for you.

But you may not have seen me

because your eyes have been fixed on the Old Man.

The Old Man looks down from afar.

I walk beside you.

The Old Man inspires fear.

I whisper encouragement.

You are part of me,

And I of you.

The Old Man is distant.

The Old Man shouts from mountaintops.

I am always near.

The Old Man judges.

The Old Man rules.

The Old Man issues commands.

I will patiently lead you until you find the way.

I want you to live. I will never abandon you.

Ven, baila conmigo.

No me dejes sola.¹

Come, dance with me.

Please don’t leave me alone.

The Old Man talks of things beyond this Earth and this life.

I give you life and the Earth.

These are gifts that display my love for you.

I ask that you love them and treat them as yourself.

You have heard,

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart,

with all your mind,

and with all your strength."

This is more than a command.

It is a promise.

But there is no conflict,

if that is what you are thinking.

I am the Old Man.

"IF YOU HAD TO FALL ASLEEP, WHY IN A 

PRISON, OF ALL PLACES?"² 

You are caught up in the notion that all that you are and all that interests you ends at the boundaries of your body. Look around you. It is yourself that you see. You may find there is more to you than you thought³. Have you tried living for yourself and in yourself long enough to see that it has not brought you happiness? Do you see that we don’t subtract from each other? We add.

Have you heard this story?

A prisoner stands facing the corner of his cell. Light and sounds from the outside stream in. The prisoner studies the cracks in the wall and calls them reality. The light and sounds coming over his shoulder he counts as illusion. Behind him the door stands open.

You are the prisoner. The prison is yourself.

Come. I will show you something of who we are.

In what comes, you will hear many voices, but recall from time to time that I am your narrator. In whatever voice, I am always the one who speaks. Each voice is wonderful to me. Each is needed. I hope you will come to see that yours is, too.

You are a part of all of this, and all of this is a part of you

CLAW 

It is cold. I must move slowly.

Dawn is not far away and the stars are out. There are, oh, so many stars. Cold white lights that wheel in a stately dance over me as I stand on the shore. They move in their own unhurried pace from overhead until they vanish in the darkness that is the grass on the bank above me. The wind moves the grass and the grass sings.

The sun rises and warms me. I begin to move more quickly. I am rich with the sun and I am still alive. I have another day of life!

I stand on the shore of my stream as it flows toward the sea. In its eagerness to rejoin the sea, the water rises in little waves along the bank.

This is the time when the water carries less salt, and I feel heavier. It carries the smells from upstream, smells of grass and of dry things that I don’t know. But the water that carries the smell of the dry things is very wet. If I am in it too long I get bloated and I need the saltier water to dry me out.

As the day wears on, the water drains down, and the mud starts to dry. I can find things to eat that I could not find when the water was washing over it. In time the water slows and grows still.

Then it comes back in. This water is saltier again, and it carries new smells. Now it tells me of the great bay beyond my marsh. It tells me of great masses of clams, worms, and fish living out their lives in the bay. The water flows back into the marsh and at last it tells me of the endless water beyond the bay, with life beyond understanding. It is the endless water from which I came and to which I will someday return.

The marsh is full of water again. Fish swim in my stream. The grass stands straighter.

The stream and I move together. The water moves past me. It tumbles over itself and riffles the mud downstream from me. I stand in the current, and bits of many things that are good to eat come bouncing along in the strong current of the outside bank.

The marsh stretches out from me on all sides farther than I can see. It feeds me. It lives with me. It lives in me. I can feel everything that lives around me. It is laid out in front of me as a gift. The marsh is generous.

The grass basks and grows in the sun. Unimaginable masses of insects, worms, and fish thrive on the bounty of the grass. I thrive on those masses of insects, worms, and fish.

Gulls fly overhead, but I am fast. They don’t catch me. I am fast when the sun warms me. I am clever. I am the color of the mud. I have won another day of life!

HERON 

It is almost time to go.

I came here this morning as the sun rose. I dropped my feet gently into the water and waded quickly into the reeds near the bank, where I would be hidden from view.

I have been here all day. I slept when I could, but I was always alert to any sound approaching me. I ate a fish when it came close to my feet.

The sun has gone down now, and the world is growing dark. The air turns cooler and still. The sky turns the color of sunflowers, then the color of blood, and then the color of wet sand in the early morning.

I listen and wade out of the reeds. I watch quietly for a little while to see if there is anything I should avoid. There is not. It has been quiet for a time now.

I stretch my wings and flap them a couple of times to get the muscles and blood ready.

It is time.

I pause, then reach out and heave myself up free of the bottom. A few strong strokes of my wings to get up to speed, moving toward the far end of this little pond. I near the end, and the trees still tower over me. I come around in a smooth curve. I push myself up, my wing tips brushing the trees that line the bank.

The wind settles down over the tops of my wings.

I come around again and now I can see over the trees. I see the ridge, and I know the river I want is on the other side. My head is tucked comfortably back on my shoulders, and my legs stretch out behind. It feels good to be flying again. The wind is in my face. It streams smoothly over my wings and slides off my feet.

I am eager. I push a little harder to get up higher, up where I can see farther, up where I belong.

I am balanced nicely on my wings. My wing rhythm is now steady. I will live with it throughout the night. I am flying level now. I push myself on with easy, steady, familiar beats. I can rest my feet and legs. I relax the tips of my wings, and follow the straight easy path. I have found my pace.

Now I can see the river. I bank slightly and head downstream. I feel the shape of the river in my soul: each sweeping turn, each quiet pool full of fish, each spit of land with its few brave bushes. I have seen each pool, spit, tree, and bush before. I move down the river. The roll of its waves and the sweep of its turns play to the beat of my wings. Each familiar place comes up from the horizon, passes beneath me, and falls out of sight behind.

I go straight while the river turns back and forth under me. I would not fly that way. It would be tiring thrashing in the wind to turn one way and then the other. I don’t know why the river does it, but then my people and the river people are very different, even though we need each other.

The river widens. Its banks become marshy. The soft grass waves in the night breeze. Little streams branch and twist through the marsh. From here it looks like veins in a leaf. I have spent time there. The gentle grass hides abundant good things to eat. I am part of this place and it is part of me.

From here it looks so plain, but the little streams are endless and it is full of life. The marsh fills you with richness. Tiny fish, and sometimes larger ones, too swim up and down the streams. The mud hides crabs and snails and worms, untold multitudes of them.

I am grateful to the fish. I need you, fish.

The marsh is generous. And over it all is the grass, endless green and yellow, waving like water in the breeze. Alive!

There are many good things to eat here, but tonight I will cover some distance.

There is more water and less grass and at last the land is gone. The familiar stars gleam steadily overhead. They help me find my way. I feel so lost and alone when I can’t see the stars.

The broad waves move slowly beneath me. They are quiet tonight. I am alone here with the stars above and the sea below. Later tonight I will find the far shore. Then I will rest again.

My family is ahead. I will find them, and we will spend the winter in our southern home. But for now there are