Mother Earth

Mother Earth… We're in her love.

—Jig3125

I caught it in a small moment—nothing dramatic, nothing staged. Just the day doing what it does: moving fast, asking for attention, pulling me from one thought to the next. The city can make you feel like you’re always late to your own life. Sirens in the distance. Somebody arguing on the corner. A bus exhaling at the light. Concrete everywhere, like the ground itself is telling you to keep it hard.

But even here, even in all this, she’s present.

I stepped outside and the air had that in-between feeling—warm but not settled, like the season was deciding what it wanted to be. I looked up and the sky was doing its quiet work, holding everything without asking for credit. A few trees down the block were moving like they had their own language. Leaves turning, not rushing, not apologizing. Just being.

That’s when it hit me: Mother Earth… we’re in her love.

Not the kind of love people talk about like a slogan. Not the kind you post and forget. The kind that’s constant. The kind that doesn’t need you to be perfect first. The kind that feeds you even when you don’t say thank you. The kind that keeps showing up when you’ve been distracted, when you’ve been numb, when you’ve been too busy trying to prove something.

I thought about how much we take without noticing. The water that comes when we turn a knob. The food that grows from dirt and time. The way our bodies keep working through stress, through heartbreak, through long nights. The way the sun still rises on days we don’t feel ready. The way the moon keeps its schedule whether we’re watching or not.

And I thought about the Bronx—how we learn to survive, how we learn to create in tight spaces, how we turn pressure into style. Hip Hop taught us that: make something out of what you’ve got. Flip the sample. Paint the wall. Write the verse. Tell the story. But even that creativity—where does it come from? Maybe it’s borrowed. Maybe it’s a gift from the same source that makes seeds split open in the dark.

In her love, I feel grounded, grateful, and connected. Like I don’t have to force meaning. Like I can breathe and remember I belong here—not just to a block or a borough, but to something older and wider than all of it.

Mother Earth… we’re in her love.

The least I can do is live like I know it.