Mother Earth is my Home


Mother Earth is My Home
By: Anette Lillevang Kristiansen

The morning mist is dank and muggy. She drags herself along a narrow mountain plateau, listening to the river roaming and hitting the stones several hundred meters below in the precipice valley. Her trekking boots are sloppy with mud, and she can hear the raindrops falling softly on her raincoat on this early morning. It’s not rain, but fog banks condensing over the treetops and transforming the path into puddles and mud.

The stones are rugged, mossy and wet with drops from the thick rainforest vegetation. A green tangle of trees and lianas cover the stepping stones, a bird screams far away and she is cloaked in the chilly mist. The cloud forest embraces and greets her.

She struggles with an aching head and breathlessness, meanwhile she climbs the steep stairs, carved into the rock wall. The ancient decayed stones are worn by time and the cold rough weather of the heights. Further down the path the ancient ruin is unveiled, the mist disperses and she glimpses a divine sight in the distance. The precipitous mossy slopes rise from the deep valley like gigantic pillars of salt. The fog banks glide like spirits over the ancient masonry.

For a while she stops to look at the scenery thoughtfully, feeling tears running and a lump in her throat. The mountains and the high plateau throw her into a trance. She takes a deep breath, but cannot find words enough to fully describe the place. The words are just too poor.

She senses something magical and almost celestial — a kind of primitive force, a mysterious spirit overlying the steel-grey rugged rocks and scarred massifs. She sees the special light, the dramatic beauty and colors that vary in shades of the whole palette.

With eyes closed she touches the worn masonry and imagines how these walls have been left to the wild jungle for ages. Then centuries ago the masonry was released with machetes from a tangle of tropical tentacles and growths, revealing its former might.

The sacred spring water in the narrow channels, cisterns and fountains runs like a labyrinth between the buildings of the ruins, giving the place a beautiful purity and innocence. They run in a zig zag pattern through temples and in front of carvings that were cut in the naked rock. The impression is a masterpiece of unique, well-preserved architecture.

She vaguely senses something she can best describe as a closeness with Pacha Mama – the heartbeat of Mother Earth – a mysterious and powerful ancient serenity, which is difficult for her to define. She is close to the breathing earth, the pulse of the planet. She feels like she has finally returned home after years of endless searching. This place has a spirit she has never sensed before, but in such a mysterious way that it feels well known.

It’s as if the spirits are still here, as if they have never left the place. Their spirits are still to be found among the ancient temple walls. She finds it strange, the impact this place is having on her. She has never been here before, but it feels so secure and well known, as though she only left yesterday. Some people believe we have lived before, that we have been here on earth for many lives and that we are always going back to where we truly belong. This is exactly the sensation she has.

Is it really true, this theory about reincarnation? Have we been here before? Are some of us really able to remember and recognize it? That’s exactly how she feels, when she is staring over the spectacular Inca ruin of Machu Picchu in Peru. She finally has reached her real home and the universe gives a deep sigh.

About the Author
Anette Lillevang Kristiansen is a journalist student and has been traveling the world since 1994. She is a writer for danish travel magazines, newspapers and is editor in chief for the Danish Travelers Guilds magazine called Globen. She is also writing fiction inspired from traveling.

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