Many people go to church on Sunday. Some even stop by at their sanctuary during the middle of the week. I, on the other hand, decided to visit my place of worship every morning that weather allows me to do so.

When dawn breaks the sky, I try to be awake so I can walk to my holy place. Every morning is fresh and ready to start its new day. The ground is dampened by what is left of the night, while at the same time the sun is orchestrating a show of colors that men or women have yet to duplicate.

I can tell when I get close to my church, because I can literally smell it. The scent of the soil is intense at this time in the morning. It ‘s a combination of the salty air of the sea, the cold clean air of the mountains, and the concept that I am going to a place I can actually become one with a God.

Pulling my ancient aqueduct, I leave tracks as though winter decided to fool us all. I reach as far as the link allows and stand in front of a line of sentinels wearing their feathered caps and emerald cloaks. They are welcoming, or maybe daring, anyone to enter. Mounds of thin, broad sheets make sure the roots of the sentries are kept warm and moist over their base.

Walking through the entrance to my chapel, firing my water supplying weapon of mass construction, I walk by a round schoolhouse filled with children each wearing a red cap surrounding giant sea-green stalks reaching up to the sky to become the giant yellow faces of knowledge that lean down in order to keep track of their students.

In fact, groups of brightly-colored children are found throughout my shrine making sure the ocean of green does not become the only singularity of energy allowed.

Everything is alive with the color of our planet that dares to pull itself up from the oceans of blue. Giant wide fans of projects of the soil wave back and forth in order to keep the rest of the temple cool and comfortable.

This is beside the congregation that reaches into the early morning sky in an attempt to be part of the light of the day. The yellow badges found at the base display how close they are to their task.

Next come columns of the same. First, I carefully soak the purple-colored stems and leaves of the lives that live beneath the soil. In fact the verdures are bonnets waiting for their stems to swell to the point of overcoming the smell of the soil that surrounds us all.

The next few steps lead to explosions of bright yellow-green sheets that need nothing underneath because they are all they need. After bidding my farewells to that which lives close to the Earth, I arrive at the wooden stems of a fortress of beings that neither keeps things in or lets things go. They get taller by the day and begin to show medals throughout their cloaks of olive green scarfs.

After making sure all is in order I arrive at the center of my masque. They are giants hiding behind metal cages and spools of twine. Their scent is of life and everything that comes near wants to inhale the oxygen rich air they are meant to exhaust.

These beings of my congregation have multiple hearts. First they are small, hard, and green but soon become scarlet bulbs stealing most of the water I attempt to flood them with. At the exit of my house of faith I turn and shoot water into the air, which explodes into an infinite number of prisms that produce even a larger number of rainbows.

Many people go to church on Sunday. I go to dirt everyday in order to understand why I exist. I don’t need golden urns, candelabras or people to tell me what I should believe. I just need the scent of dirt.
The End.

Most go to church while I go to dirt by Jim Fabiano

Jim Fabiano is a retired teacher and writer living in York, Maine, USA.
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