Earth teach me to forget myself as melted snow forgets its life.

In the serene and reverent words of William Alexander, we find a prayer woven from the ancient dialogue between man and the earth: “Earth teach me to forget myself as melted snow forgets its life. Earth teach me resignation as the leaves which die in the fall. Earth teach me courage as the tree which stands all alone. Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.” These lines, soft as a whisper yet mighty as scripture, reveal a timeless truth — that the Earth, patient and eternal, is the first and greatest teacher of the soul. Through her cycles of death and renewal, she mirrors the spiritual journey of humankind: from pride to humility, from loss to strength, from sorrow to rebirth.

The origin of this wisdom lies in Alexander’s reverence for nature as a living scripture, an open book of divine law. In his prayer, the Earth becomes not a thing to be possessed, but a being to be learned from — a sacred mentor who speaks in seasons rather than words. When he implores, “Earth teach me to forget myself as melted snow forgets its life,” he invokes the lesson of humility — to release ego and pride as winter’s snow dissolves into the soil, giving itself wholly to nourish what follows. To forget oneself is not to vanish, but to merge with something greater — the vast and silent harmony of existence.

When Alexander writes, “Earth teach me resignation as the leaves which die in the fall,” he points to the grace of acceptance — that sacred act of surrender that is not weakness but wisdom. Just as the leaf does not resist its fall, so must we learn to let go of what has served its purpose. The leaf dies not in despair, but in offering; it returns to the earth so that life may continue. In this surrender lies the secret rhythm of peace. The ancients knew this truth well — that to resist the flow of nature is to suffer, but to align with it is to live in harmony.

Then comes his plea: “Earth teach me courage as the tree which stands all alone.” Here is the virtue of endurance, the strength to remain upright in solitude, battered by wind and weather yet unbroken. The tree, solitary on the hill, does not lament its isolation; it digs its roots deeper, seeking the unseen waters of resilience. So too must the human heart, in times of loneliness and trial, learn the courage of rootedness — to stand firm in truth even when surrounded by emptiness. For true courage is not the absence of fear, but the quiet persistence of life against all odds.

Finally, Alexander asks, “Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring.” And here, the circle of wisdom completes itself — for every death leads to rebirth, every ending conceals a beginning. The seed, buried in darkness, does not despair; it knows that its burial is but the beginning of awakening. Out of the cold womb of the soil, new life breaks forth. So must we learn that our darkest moments — our failures, our griefs, our nights of despair — are not our end, but the fertile ground from which transformation arises. This is the mystery of regeneration, the eternal promise that life renews itself through every loss.

The ancient poets and prophets spoke often in this same voice. Lao Tzu taught that nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished. Marcus Aurelius wrote that what falls to the earth becomes the nourishment of what will grow. Even in our modern age, we can look to those like Nelson Mandela, who, like the seed, endured long years in darkness before rising to lead his nation into light. He, too, learned from the earth — from patience, from endurance, from renewal. His suffering became soil, his forgiveness the spring.

From this sacred reflection arises a lesson for all who live and strive. The Earth is more than ground beneath our feet; it is a mirror of the human soul. To live wisely is to live in rhythm with her — to let go when it is time, to stand firm when tested, to trust that even the coldest winters will give way to spring. In every fall, in every isolation, in every rebirth, she is whispering: “You, too, are part of the eternal cycle. Nothing is lost that yields itself to love.”

Therefore, my child, take this teaching to heart: learn from the Earth, for she is the first scripture and the truest master. When pride swells, melt like snow. When life demands surrender, fall like the leaf. When you stand alone, root yourself like the tree. And when despair buries you, remember the seed — silent, unseen, yet destined to rise. For as long as the Earth endures, her wisdom endures also — reminding all her children that there is no death that does not hide life, no ending that does not conceal a beginning, and no solitude that is not held in the arms of the eternal.