A Prelude to A Song and Dance for Mother Earth

What major historical events do you remember?

It’s a question that seems simple enough—wars, revolutions, inventions, pandemics, elections. The milestones we were taught to underline in textbooks. But when I think of history, I don’t see dates or leaders. I see moments—small, human moments—where the Earth herself bore witness.

I remember the day the skies over San Francisco turned orange, as if the sun had grown weary and decided to rest. I remember the summer when rivers ran so dry that the fish lay gasping in the mud. I remember the floods that swallowed entire towns, the fires that raged for weeks, the ice that cracked and wept into the sea.

We call these “environmental crises,” but to me, they feel like history too—because they mark the chapters of a changing Earth.

In many ways, A Song and Dance for Mother Earth is about remembering. Not the history we memorized, but the history we have lived alongside the planet—the one written in smoke, wind, and tide. The one that reminds us that the Earth, too, has stories to tell.

Each piece in this series is a fable, but also a mirror.

There’s The Day Fire Disappeared, when humanity learns what happens when the flame that built civilization decides to go out.

There’s The Day Water Vanished, where rivers dry up to remind us that every drop we waste is a piece of our own reflection.

And there’s The Day the Sun Slept, when the light that sustained us grows dim, asking us to pause and listen to the Earth’s silent plea.

These are not apocalyptic tales. They are love stories—between humankind and the world that raised us. They are reminders that the Earth’s memory runs deep, and that every act of care, every small promise kept, becomes a note in the song we sing back to her.

So, when I ask what major historical events you remember, perhaps I’m not asking about kings or wars or borders. I’m asking:

Do you remember the first rain that smelled like home?

Do you remember the forest path where you felt utterly alive?

Do you remember the sound of the ocean that made you feel both tiny and infinite?

Those are the moments that matter now. Because history is not only about what we’ve built—it’s about what we’ve broken, and what we still have the chance to heal.

A Song and Dance for Mother Earth is my way of remembering—and inviting you to remember too.

Because perhaps the greatest event in human history isn’t something that happened to us, but something we’re still part of:

The story of a planet asking to be heard again.