The Love of the Land, A Paean to Ten Acres

     It is ten acres of ground in Elko County, northeastern Nevada. It is sage, sand, the comforting blanket of sky, and mountains, the latter hiding Utah from the uplifted gaze. The area once was called Tecoma in a time when sheep were big business there. It is not too far from a place called Montello.

     Truly it's Andy Warhol-promised fifteen minutes of fame are over but that is extraneous to what it really is and ever has been. Also extraneous is that today I hold title to it. I did not buy it for investment purposes or for any world-admired reason. I bought it to be connected to its forever 'is-ness.'

     The first time I stood on this land, the title to it stuffed in my backpack, that forever 'is-ness' sang to me:

     'The land is forever. When the doomsayers proclaim that the cities have destroyed, taken over, the land, and the land is no more, they are wrong. They are wrong because under the cities that are twisted, loud, tormented, menacing, and void of light, air and freedom, the land is eternal, not sleeping, just waiting.'

     If you don't believe this, leave your cities for a spell, unguarded, ignored, uncared for, and when and if you return, the land will have risen up and taken your cities unto itself. The land will lie waiting to give your soul its strength and your feet a floor on which to dance the celebration of all life.

     This small particular piece of the planet, this land my land, is my link to all that ever mattered, does matter and will matter. Its life embraces and is embraced by mountains and bluffs. I know now beyond any doubt that the first party ever thrown, the first dancing ever done, came early on in the creation of this planet when the land invited the mountains, bluffs and hills to come to the first celebration of life. The land, decked out in sage and sand, hosted the gathering of its snow-stoled and water-tressed guests. Musical and pyrotechnical entertainment were provided by even-earlier created bodies from their overhead balconies and high stalls.

     This joy into the night unfurled the ribbon-band of love that ties together for all time all created things. This is the love without which nothing survives and from which all creation expands.

     I hear you ask, 'What about the Creator? Was He, She or It at the celebration? Where does the god of man fit here?'

     I, too, asked as I stood on the land and its forever 'isness' replied: 'What of God? Is not He the unfurled Love? Is not He the love of the land, the hills, the stars, all galaxies? Is not He the choreographer of and for creation? He is All, and every song and dance and party of creation is a song and dance and party with Him.'

     Out where the cities are not, out where one stands on one's own land, one can speak with Him, and the conversation is with Him, and not at Him. Here, out here, standing on the land, one is centered in the real uplifting mystery, knowable in the heart 'though ungraspable by the mind. This is the mystery whose eternal song rings out that the Creator is not His creation but all His creation is Him.

     It is ten acres of ground in Elko County, northeastern Nevada. It is not too far from a place called Montello. Come and stand on my land. Shrug off your backpack. Kneel down, cup the warm sand in your hands, smell the tenacious sage, raise your eyes to the geometric wanderings of the lone hawk. Stand, facing the mountains and the bluffs, the sand trickling from your hands. Bend down to remove your shoes and socks, and then stand tall, your arms flung wide to embrace the sky above. Know forever that the land on which you stand is indeed holy ground and everlasting love.

©1998 Marilyn Guswiler

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