When last did you trace the lines of your face and contours of your body?

The cartography of you.

Did your fingers hit the floor? Four walls? Cold and concrete.

As we sever our connection to the earth that cradles us,

And the water that gives us life,

We lose touch with the very essence of us.

Our insatiable thirst for oil - 81,804,000 barrels,

Siphoned from seabeds and fields each day,

Fuels a lifestyle that will be our undoing.

As the atmosphere heats to temperatures never before seen,

As our food yields fall, as we can’t breathe from the fumes,

It’s likely we will see at least 3 degrees.

The mountain ranges and caverns from which we evolved,

Crevasses filled with molten gold.

Our bodies, a mirror to the soil and air and water that sustains us.

A cruel twist of fate: 1,020 - 1,530 metric tons of gold,

Entombed in our phones.

The gilded age of electronics, they say.

A silent monument to our need for newness and nowness.

And yet, it’s familiarity we crave.

A novel take on what we know.

Space debris clutters the heavens,

A new celestial constellation of our making.

Satellites and discarded rockets usurp the stars,

While 120 billion pieces from across the globe of packaging form earthbound galaxies of waste.

These artificial bodies - remnants of our beauty rituals and the cult of consumption -

Choke oceans, fell forests, mock our feeble attempts at wish cycling our way through life.

Nature’s cycles watch in silent judgment as we craft

New constellations from the detritus of our desires.

Can we still trace Orion amidst the orbiting waste

Or find the North Star through the haze of excess?

We shed our clothes faster than our skin,

When did you last feel your face, your bosy’s landscape

As your feet kissed the soil that nourishes you?

When did untainted air last caress your skin,

Or water free from heavy metals and chemicals wash away the day?

Gentle is the wave that ripples on the shore

And moulds the sands into its echo.

How have we lost sight of this power

And its ability to change our shape and course?

What if we rewrote this story?

What if beauty emerged not from myriad bottles

Filled with potions of promise,

But from the world around us?

Seek out the poppies that sprout from the cracks.

What if we cherished our bodies

Without needing validation from fabric or fleeting glances?

What if thoughtfulness preceded every purchase?

Could we sculpt anew our soil and streams,

Coaxing back the bees, butterflies and moths, bison and beavers?

Could we reshape our land and change the horizon

With the same care we lavish on our bodies?

Touch your face, feel the terrain of your soul,

Let your fingers dance across you.

Reconnect with the clay that shaped you,

The stardust that sparkles in your veins.

For in tracing ourselves, we trace humanity,

In knowing our bodies, we know the cosmos.

We are but a moment in time’s grand design,

Yet infinite in the stories our bodies tell.

When did you last map the contours of you?

What imprints will you leave behind?

Let your body be both brush and canvas,

Painting a future where beauty emanates from within,

Nurturing the earth as it does your spirit.

In this intricate tapestry of life,

Each mindful choice reverberates,

Transforming not just our physical forms,

But the very fabric of our shared existence.

Go now.

Trace the lines of your face and contours of your body

With your feet firmly planted on the soil.