Field Notes of a Wanderer

(A Spoken Word Piece Inspired by Recent Events in California)

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The ground split beneath us,

a fissure not of earth,

but of soul –

a trembling truth that screamed,

“Everything breaks if held too tight.”

California,

you stood bold against oceans

and begged the mountains to hold your back.

But the earth is restless

and the air is tired of the silence.

The sky cracked open,

spilling fury instead of rain,

fire instead of grace.

And we,

the ones who tread your golden veins,

thought we could tame the chaos

with our hands,

our buildings,

our prayers pressed like whispers

against a roaring wind.

This is no quiet reckoning.

This is God turning the mirror to the sun,

saying, “Look at what you’ve done.”

The wildfires – teeth gnashing,

flesh burning,

memories consumed to ash.

And the floods – water roaring,

not to cleanse,

but to bury what we refused to let go.

California,

you are a song unsung,

a land cracked with history’s weight.

You carry the dreams of millions

who came to strike gold,

but dug graves instead.

And now, we are called to account.

What will we say when the mountains

no longer answer?

When the rivers rise to meet the sins

we thought we buried

beneath your endless sky?

This is not just nature’s rage.

This is us –

all of us –

breaking the covenant we never honored.

The asphalt we poured over Eden,

the fire we ignited in the belly of a wounded world.

We weep now.

Oh, how we weep.

But weep not for what is lost –

weep for what is still to come

if we don’t learn to listen

to the wind, the earth, the fire.

California,

you are scarred but not silent.

A prophet with smoke-filled lungs,

whispering truths we refuse to hear.

Teach us to kneel,

to build not with steel but with reverence.

To remember that land is not owned—

it is borrowed,

a heartbeat we cradle

until it cradles us back.

And when the earth shakes again,

when the fire breathes again,

may we stand,

not as conquerors,

but as caretakers.

May we hold your hand,

not with chains,

but with grace.

For California,

you are not broken.

You are reborn –

a phoenix in the ashes,

a baptism in the flood.

And we,

your children,

must finally learn

to be worthy of you.

Spoken not with sorrow,

but with fire in our bellies.

The time to rise is now.

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The poem is about humanity’s fractured relationship with nature and the consequences of neglecting our role as caretakers of the earth. It reflects on the devastation caused by wildfires and natural disasters, like those in California, as both a literal and metaphorical reckoning. The imagery of fire, floods, and a restless earth serves as a powerful reminder of how our actions—through exploitation, carelessness, and disregard for the environment—have ignited chaos.

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At its core, the poem carries a message of accountability, lament, and hope. It acknowledges the scars we’ve inflicted on the planet while calling for a shift in perspective: to move from being conquerors to stewards, from taking to honoring, and from destruction to rebuilding with humility and reverence. The closing lines, with the phoenix-like imagery, suggest that even amid destruction, there is an opportunity for rebirth, growth, and a restored relationship with the earth—if we are willing to listen and change.

Chrysi 🕊️