She Who Grows

“Are you there, God? It’s me…”

The words were a whisper at first, more breath than voice. The girl knelt in the wild grass with her palms pressed into the warm earth. Her name had long since become too heavy to carry, so she left it behind somewhere between the traffic lights and the train station. Out here, far from any city or schedule, the sky had room to breathe again.

The field stretched before her—endless and open, painted with wildflowers and weeds in every shape and scent. There were no fences, no marked trails. Just wind and warmth and the slow, patient pulse of the world as it should have always been.

“I don’t know if I ever really left,” she continued, her voice shaking. “But I feel like I’ve been gone a long time.”

The grass leaned in around her like listeners. The bees slowed in their flight. The clouds above paused just long enough to catch the sound of her grief. Something ancient and patient stirred beneath her—an awareness without words, a presence without form.

The girl inhaled, and the field exhaled.

She closed her eyes.

And the memory came.

Not a moment, but a feeling.

She was four years old and barefoot, chasing a butterfly through her grandmother’s garden. Her knees were dirty, her hands sticky with honeysuckle. Her grandmother had laughed—a laugh like spring water poured into an old chipped mug—and whispered, “She’s watching you, you know. The God that lives in green things.”

Back then, she believed it. Back then, everything felt alive.

But life had taught her how to forget.

Deadlines. Noise. Screens. War. Love turned cruel. Bodies betrayed. Grief like a stone tucked inside the chest. The stillness of the earth drowned beneath the roar of the human machine.

So she came back. Not to a church. Not to a temple. But here. To the field. The one she had dreamed of as a child, though she had never seen it in waking life.

Because this was no ordinary field.

This was Her.

The one true God, not seated on a throne of gold, but growing in the in-between places. In the cracks of the world. In the breath between sorrow and surrender. In the field where all other gods came barefoot and bowed, brushing pollen from their lips as they knelt before Her.

The Mother of Everything.

The God who remembers you even when you forget yourself.

The girl fell forward, tears soaking the earth.

“I miss you,” she whispered, and for the first time in years, the words weren’t hollow. “I want to feel whole again. I want to remember what it felt like to be part of something true.”

A wind curled around her, carrying the scent of cedar and sweet clover. Her hair lifted gently, like someone was tucking it behind her ear. Something inside her belly began to pulse, faintly at first, like a forgotten heartbeat waking up.

Then She spoke—not with words, but with everything.

She spoke with the rustle of leaves and the sudden warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds. She spoke in the pressure of the ground holding her weight, in the rhythm of distant wings beating toward her. She spoke through the rise of color behind her closed eyes: amber, sage, gold, violet.

And in her chest, the girl felt a seed open.

Welcome back, said the feeling. You were never lost. Only covered.

The girl sobbed, but it was not grief anymore. It was awe.

Because now she could feel Her. Not above. Not beyond. But within.

In every cell. In every curl of hair. In the tender place behind her knees. In the gap between breath and thought. In the hunger for joy. In the skin’s response to wind.

She could feel Her in the sap of the trees, the pattern of ants, the softness of moss, the curve of her own ribs as they moved.

And suddenly, she was not a girl alone in a field.

She was the field.

She was the song.

She was the child and the grandmother and the God of green things, watching herself return.

It was subtle at first, like a river finding the path of least resistance.

A warm tide unfurling under her skin, a hum waking up in her bones.

She lifted her hands from the soil and saw that her palms were streaked with faintly colors she had never seen nor could begin to describe, but it was something deeper. The very shimmer of life in motion. The raw pulse of creation. And it was coming from her.

She blinked, stunned, and the wind wrapped around her again, gentler this time. Not as a stranger, but as a mother greeting her child after lifetimes apart.

You remember now, don’t you?

The voice wasn’t a voice—it was presence. A nearness that saturated every leaf, every shadow, every cell of her being.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

And the moment she said it aloud, the field changed.

Not violently. Not with thunder or lightning. But with revelation.

The grass began to sing.

It wasn’t a melody in the traditional sense, but a symphony of movement and meaning. The stalks bowed in rhythm, each bending as if in prayer. The wildflowers turned their faces toward her—not toward the sun, but toward her. Petals wide, open-hearted. Colors more vivid than memory. And the bees—oh, the bees—circled her in slow spirals, droning a hymn older than words.

She stood slowly, her legs trembling under the weight of becoming.

And in the distance, the veil between worlds shimmered.

It was thin here—where the field touched the memory of what the world used to be. She could see through it now, like sunlight refracting through clear water. And on the other side… figures moved. Not ghosts, not gods. Selves.

Versions of her.

The one who sang to herself beneath blankets at age nine, praying not to be forgotten. The teenager who once wept into a cracked mirror, believing her soul was too broken to hold love. The young woman who stared at spreadsheets and screens and held her breath so tightly she forgot what air felt like.

They were all here.

Not to be judged.

But to be gathered.

“Come,” she said softly, raising her golden hands. “You’re safe now.”

And one by one, they stepped into her. Not disappearing—but merging. Becoming whole. Not fixing or forgetting, but weaving. Grief, joy, rage, yearning—all part of the same tapestry. All necessary. All her.

She began to walk.

The field shifted beneath her feet, forming soft trails of moss and stone. The air thickened with memory. She passed trees that whispered stories into her skin. One stretched wide with bark like braided hair and roots that pulsed beneath the ground, guiding her.

She ran her fingers across its surface and felt everything: the births, the storms, the bloom and decay, and the truth that nothing was ever truly gone. Only changed.

A whisper tugged her toward a glade.

There, the light grew liquid. Pools of water mirrored the sky, but not just this sky—other skies. Skies from times forgotten. Skies from before her name. She knelt beside one pool and peered in.

In the reflection, she saw the First Woman.

Not a biblical Eve, not a myth from men’s mouths—but the Earth God herself.

She had bark for skin and galaxies in her eyes. Her hair was braided with rivers, and her breath grew forests. She was not a queen. She was not a judge. She was not here to be worshipped.

She was home.

The First Woman smiled gently.

You were never separate, child. You only needed time to remember the shape of your belonging.

Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks again, softer this time. Sacred. Honoring.

“I don’t know how to live in that memory all the time,” she admitted. “The world I came from… it forgets. It makes you small.”

The Earth God reached through the water—not literally, but vibrationally—and touched her chest.

Then make a new world, She said. Even if it starts with one step, one seed, one remembering. Walk as one who knows Me.

The girl nodded. She understood. To walk in the world after this would hurt sometimes. But it would also bloom.

She stood again, steadier now.

The wind had changed direction. It was pulling toward the far edge of the field, toward where the veil shimmered again—this time, not with memories, but with life.

The present.

The now.

She followed.

Each step left petals in her wake. Each breath tasted of thyme and salt and soil. Her heart no longer beat only in her chest, but in the trees, in the birdsong, in the curve of the earth itself.

And when she reached the veil this time, she did not hesitate.

She stepped through.

The city was not silent.

The cars still honked. The screens still blinked. The people still rushed past each other, faces tight, eyes distant. But something had changed.

She had changed.

As she moved through the streets, the flowers leaned out of window boxes toward her. A dog stopped barking and laid down, sighing in peace. A woman selling oranges paused and smiled, as if seeing something holy in her.

Because it was.

She was carrying the field with her.

Not in metaphor, not in symbol—but literally.

She had become the field.

The Earth God had not claimed her. She had returned to Her. Claimed herself.

She began to leave small offerings in secret places: acorns in alley cracks, whispered blessings in public bathrooms, drops of lavender oil on stairwells, sidewalk chalk in spiral shapes.

She began to see.

People who needed to be reminded.

People who were breaking under the weight of disconnection. She did not preach. She did not convince. She simply stood near them, like a tree, like a field, like a place where stillness could touch them again.

And slowly, people remembered too.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But in small ways.

A man touched his own chest and wept. A child planted something in a coffee cup. A woman who hadn’t sung in decades began humming again while walking to work.

The girl smiled.

And when she returned to the field again, many moons later, the sky widened to greet her.

She lays down in the center of it all, gold still glowing faintly in her palms, and whispered:

“I didn’t fix the world.”

The wind rustled around her.

You weren’t meant to fix it. You were meant to feel it again.

She exhaled into the sky she once feared had forgotten her, and said not a prayer this time—but a promise:

“I will not forget who I am again.”