Book of Alchemy prompt! Today is to consider the history of the Earth where I happen to be. To think about what has happened before and to write about it.

I know that the land where I am living might have once been part of a First Nations’ community. A city about twenty miles from me has a museum that recognizes how its location was once part of the same First Nations. And in reading my history, I think it’s safe to assume that my house would have the same history.

I imagine the forests that would have been here. The long spines of pine trees. The massive sprawling root systems of oak or maple trees. I imagine the forest floors littered with acorns in the fall. I can see the snowfall. The Milky Way untangled in the sky.

I dream about the air’s cleanliness. The lack of lingering gasoline or diesel fumes that drift from the main road parallelling my home. I dream about the abundance of bird song. I hear it in the early morning when I awaken before sunrise so I can mow my lawn before the heat of the day becomes dire. But to be able to hear it throughout the day, to not have the concern for dwindling songbird populations.

In the evenings, the fireflies rise from my lawn and dangle in the trees. I remember the firefly constellations of my youth. Would they have been even more plentiful in the past? Veritable galaxies lingering above the tall grasses.

I hesitate to imagine the people. I am not First Nation. I have not read enough First Nation writing or studied enough about the varying communities to even hazard a guess. I don’t want to invoke stereotypes or hasty assumptions. But I can see their shadows. I can feel their presences.

I know that my writing about my home’s history must seem judgemental. Pessimistic. I’d rather be seen as realistic. Pragmatic. I don’t know if where I lived was originally a meadow or a forest. I can only image that it was not perfectly level. That the rich bio-tapestry that once existed was ripped out and leveled. And then my wonderful house was built. And in the 126 years of its life, there are a whole new set of shadows that inhabit the corners.

Sometimes my dogs bark at the air. My daugther and I like to joke that they are barking at “Ghosty,” the ghost that apparently doesn’t inhabit my daughter’s closet but resides close to the closet’s door. My bad.

What is the ghost’s story? What is the land’s history? What were the knolls and dips and crevices. Was there a creek that ran through my property? I would love the idea of the creek. Certainly the character of Polishing the Bones are rooting for this idea. But then, I don’t have any water damage….just pooling out by the garage anytime we get a ton of rain.

I dream of the history of the land. Of meteor showers pelting the earth. Of light slipping over the horizon and sieving through the tree trunks, sending scattered sun beams deeper into the woods. I dream of light glistening on running water, of slender brown leaves streaming over rocks and down the paths of creeks and into rivers that lead to the oceans. I dream of the scent of the earth, rising to meet the rain. I dream of the quiet night skies that liquify into day, of the wind seeping through tree branches. Of the songs of the people who lived here before me. I will raise my voice and join them. Off key. Off tempo. Until I feel their rhythms rise from the soles of my feet and up into the crown of my head. And then I will ease back into their songs. Into their histories. Into their beings.

And, together, we will sing…