How do you connect with the earth? That is a question I’ve never considered. 

Until I heard the word “dirt.”

Would this be an opportunity to reclaim that spot on the ground?

That spot that I envisioned the first time I visited the home of my biological grandmother. The spot that I wanted to ask about, but I was afraid of asking too much—of digging too deep—of having too many questions about the day of my birth.

Is this an opportunity to reclaim the spot—which I have worn like a cloak of shame?

The spot that I wondered about since I was 12 years old.

Suddenly it dawned on me: I connected to the earth on the morning of my birth.

The morning she decided the spot next to the woodpile would be the best place to put a newborn baby girl.

The spot next to the woodpile is the place my Uncle AJ* saw me. He ran inside to tell Grandma Almira* that the baby was outside, and he couldn’t convince her to look because her baby was resting in his crib. 

In the room. 

In the house. 

Inside.

But there was a baby outside.

Exposed to the elements.

In the dirt.

Next to the woodpile.

The woodpile, the place she felt I would be found, was not a place of safety or security.

But Uncle AJ persisted and finally Grandma Almira looked outside and found me. 

I survived.

Discarded and abandoned, but I survived.