“The Earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the Earth befalls the sons and daughters of the Earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.”
— Chief Seattle, respected Duwamish and Suquamish leader
A friend once sent me a video—about twins in a womb having a full-blown philosophical crisis. She said it reminded her of my brother and me, and the conversations she imagined us having in there. She was probably right, although our prenatal debates likely involved more kicking than Kierkegaard.
My brother and I have always been after the truth—relentlessly curious, occasionally insufferable. At six years old, we presented our parents with a fully developed Santa Claus Disproof Theory.
Our central claim: there’s no way one overweight man could deliver presents to every child on Earth without violating multiple laws of physics—and, more importantly, digestive limits. If Santa and his reindeer ate cookies at every household, they all would’ve died of sugar-induced comas decades ago.
Anyway, back to the twins in the womb.
In the video, one twin—let’s say me—asks, “Do you believe in life after delivery?”
The other twin—my brother—nods, “Of course. I think we’re here to prepare for something more.”
Naturally, I scoff. “That’s absurd. Walking? Eating with our mouths? Losing the umbilical cord, our literal lifeline? There’s no life after this. And if there were, how come no one has come back to tell us about it?”
My brother, ever the philosopher-embryo, responds with irritating calm: “What if it’s just different? What if we don’t need the cord anymore? What if we meet Mother?”
I can practically hear myself, full of sisterly sass: “Mother? You believe in Mother? If she exists, where is she now?” And let’s be honest, I definitely called him a dumb-dumb.
But he just keeps going, quietly confident, already wiser than me by a few milliliters of amniotic enlightenment: “She’s all around us. We live in her. We are of her. And if you listen closely… sometimes, you can hear her voice.”
That’s always been my brother’s way—offering cosmic truths with unnerving calm while I rolled my eyes in his face.
And the thing is? He was always right.
Maybe it’s because he was born two pounds heavier than me. Two full pounds of extra wisdom, apparently. I got the metaphors; he got the mysticism.
But those twins weren’t just talking about birth. They were talking about this life. About this Earth. About Her.
Mother Earth.
We are still in the womb. Still tethered. Still kicking around in the amniotic waters of this human condition, arguing over what’s real and what isn’t. And all the while, Mother has been right here— surrounding us, nourishing us, speaking to us.
And I know this, too: just as there is life after the womb, there must be life beyond this one. Just as what we do in the womb prepares us for the world to come—stretch, grow lungs, try not to tangle yourself in the cord… maybe this world is preparation too.
And just as we meet our parents when we tumble into this life—or, in my case, are forcibly extracted by three determined Brazilian women while refusing entry into the human experience—perhaps we’ll meet our Heavenly parents when we cross into the next.
Some traditions teach that we don’t need to care for the Earth because this isn’t our final destination. But that logic feels a bit like saying, “I don’t need to clean my apartment—I’m moving eventually.”
What if this world and the next aren’t so separate after all?
What if the point isn’t leaving Earth behind, but learning how to live well within it, while we’re here, right now?
We care for Mother so she can birth healthy twins. And we care for Earth so she can raise whole, conscious humans—people capable of love, presence and awe.
Yesterday I listened to a panel of Indigenous water leaders, including Dr. Dawn Martin-Hill, a Mohawk scholar from the Six Nations of the Grand River.
When asked how she would reimagine the governance of water, her answer was simple and profound: The Great Law of Peace.
The Great Law, followed by the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, is a traditional constitution rooted not in control, but in gratitude, relationship, and foresight.
In her community, children recite it before school, much like U.S. children once recited the Pledge of Allegiance. But instead of pledging to a flag, they give thanks to water. To land. To life itself.
A core teaching of the Great Law is to consider how each decision we make today will impact the seventh generation into the future.
But those twins in the womb made me consider something else: If our actions ripple forward, could they also ripple back?
Could our choices now bring healing not only to those who will follow, but to the seven generations who came before?
What if this isn’t just about legacy, but reciprocity?
What if tending the Earth is a way of keeping faith with our ancestors—of honoring their prayers, fulfilling promises they once made on our behalf?
And lately I’ve been wondering something else: What if we return to this same Earth?
My grandfather always said that when he died, he’d come back as a cardinal. And every time one appears—a burst of red on the tree outside my window—I wonder if he kept his word.
I used to think of it as a sweet story. Now, I’m not so sure it’s just a story.
In the show Four Seasons, a man dreams that his late friend (played by Steve Carell) came back as a butterfly. His partner rolls his eyes—until he opens a cabinet and finds an old drawing the man’s daughter made: her dad, as a butterfly. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Maybe he is a butterfly.”
Because really—how can any of us know what comes next?
But even if we never return to this Earth, the wildlife around us is our kin. The trees, the birds, the water—they are our family. We come from the same matter, shaped by the same breath. We share this home. That truth is enough.
And still, if there’s even a chance that we do return—as a bird, an otter, a bear, a butterfly—then our responsibility deepens. Because we wouldn’t just be protecting the future. We’d be tending the lives of those who came before. Those we love. Ourselves, even.
To honor the Earth, then, is to honor all of it: what was, what is, what may be again.
Because this isn’t just about sustainability.
It’s about aligning who we are with how we live.
It is about learning to listen here before we speak fluently in the next world. About loving this home before we expect to belong to another.
As Tyson Yunkaporta writes,
“Kinship reaches across heaven and earth.”
And as Steven Charleston reminds us,
“You are loved because the land loves you.”
So if Mother really is all around us—then maybe the most sacred thing we can do is simply stop, get quiet, and listen.
Because sometimes, if you pay attention, you really can hear her voice.
It might sound like the crash of waves, the steady drip of water, the hush of wind through the trees, or the chirp of birdsong.
Or maybe… just maybe… it sounds like love. Not the kind we chase, but the kind that calls us home.
And when we hear her, we begin to remember.
That we belong to each other.
That this Earth is holy ground.
And that the way we live now… echoes in all directions.
Forward.
Backward.
And deep into the unknown.
Thanks for reading My Waterful Life!
<3 Been an honor sharing a womb with you
First time I've heard the womb and afterlife analogy. Lovely, thoughtful and important message. Thank you Amy.