Wild

Inner Wild

wild (v.)
“to run wild, refuse to be tamed,” Old English awildian (see wild (adj.)). Wilding (n.) in the teen gang sense first recorded 1989. Earlier it meant “plant that grows without cultivation” (1520s).

wild (adj.)
Old English wilde “in the natural state, uncultivated, untamed, undomesticated, uncontrolled,” from Proto-Germanic *wilthja- (cognates: Old Saxon wildi, Old Norse villr, Old Frisian wilde, Dutch wild, Old High German wildi, German wild, Gothic wilþeis “wild,” German Wild (n.) “game”), from PIE root*welt- “woodlands; wild” (see wold).

wild (n.)
“uncultivated or desolate region,” 1590s, in the wilds. From wild (adj.). Earlier it meant “wild animal” (c. 1200).

When my Wild self crawls out in an untamed howl she screams like a banshee, she speaks in tongues and sounds of fury and love. Like a chorus of mother wolves, she paces and circles within me, within her marked and carefully guarded territory. She breaks through me like medusa encased in stone, follicles of snakes dancing upon her head, ready to walk barefoot down the sunken trail.

She is fierce and often reckless, a Wild uncultivated tongue that tastes sweet like roses and honey, tendrils wrapping tightly, piercing ever so gently with thorns that dig in and cut the surface, the Wild longs for the depth, she seeks what lies beneath.

Unleashed Wild likes to shapeshift and crawl inside and around, feral like an animal, others know her as Instinct. Wild like Instinct, and action without thought. Wild like when we allow ourselves to be animals, to lose language and move bodies as our predecessors did- walk on all fours or slither around each other like invertebrates. Wild bodies tangled like undisturbed forests, Wild like mating calls and rituals, like fire and wind that speaks through branches of trees.

A mouth wide open with dry lips and the shrieking echo of a red tail hawk flying. Wild like the way it finds you, the way it circles you. One, Two, Three times. Wild like soaring upon air, like sunlight illuminating wings. Wild like speaking to animals, like knowing their words and gestures. Wild like knowing the shape and size of their bones beneath your skin.

Wild as in untamed, as in no one can capture me or hold me down or plant my feet. Wild as in I am solitary, often by choice, sometimes by circumstance, mostly by acceptance.

Untamed like the blood running through my veins, carrying choices from generations passed, entwined in my DNA. Wild like winds that shake the barely in Ireland where many of my father’s side once lived and I stare at the family crest and wonder what they looked like, what they thought and who they loved and what they knew of hardship and suffering.

Wild like Native American blood, like a connection to the land that calls to me in my sleep that I have no living link to, no formal stories aside from the ones my eyes hold in the deep.

Wild like my matriarchs before me, like the imagined selves they never got to be.

Wild like the time I was 11, it was summer and my skin was sticky from a humid day. A thunderstorm moved in, and something pulled me, some Wild spirit. I challenged the storm, I opened the door and ran barefoot up the trail in the woods as fast as I could. I ran until my lungs burned and my head was light. I waited under a stand of trees and sat on my favorite boulder and I stared at the empty field before me as I watched lightning strike. Wild like knowing I could have- that I should have turned and run home the way I came.

Wild like just following my feet, never telling my mother I was leaving. Wild like my anger.

Wild like my breath and the beat of my heart and the slow yet deliberate smile that came across my face as I leaped from the rock, ran into the pouring rain and feet hit the muddy and slick grassy field. Wild the way that time stops or slows down or changes how you recall things when your body fills with adrenaline. Wild that I had the arrogance to challenge such a storm. I ran through the field and I heard a symphony playing in my head, the thunder crashed and lightning broke the sky and I ran across the field and into the dirt road, with rocks cutting the soles of my feet and my mother’s voice in the distance calling me.

Wild like in that moment- feeling so brilliant, so defiant- against myself, the laws of nature, against luck and chance and my own physical limits. Wild like I had uncovered true freedom. I stood in the middle of the road, bent over catching my breath, hands resting on my knees, tired and soaked from summer rain that carried courage and a certain sense of immortality.

I knew from that very moment I loved the Wild; the noun, the verb, the adjective, whatever shape or form or synonym it took. I knew— raindrops brushing my eyelids, rib cage expanding, feet bleeding, my heart and mind aligning, that I was bound to Wild.

I would never truly be a woman you could tame.

 

Credit to:Jeanette Leblanc @http://www.peacelovefree.com/ for providing prompts to inspire this writing

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Wild Knowing

What is known is the wild. This valley, the way she keeps me, calls me to her shores with whispers of westward winds. Vacated beaches and clouds thick like milkweed, like a soft crown around my head. The knowing I can always find a quiet place, away from sidewalks and sirens, in between the changing pink hues of the sumac leaves and the jagged rocks that collect distant memories, dead and forgotten pieces of time resting in pools of last night’s rain.

What is unknown is when and where these moments find me, pulling me to the earth, opening my dark eyes wide. They find me in the scurry of an otter along the banks. My back turned and something says “look behind”…there it is quietly sitting, watching me. The way both our senses collide and we respect each other’s space. An unspoken connection, a recognition of what wild feels like, what freedom lies in the stillness, in the moments between these moments.

The sweet surprise of the old Nepalese man I see on my morning walks, how we don’t speak with tongues, we see each other, through and through. I feel a warmth come over me as I study his face, the wrinkled tributaries that trail from his eyes. Folds of skin that tell time. That tell another life. Under this gray sky, he sits, legs folded wrapped in colored cloths and today I hear him singing from his balcony. I look up and exchange smiles, we press our hands together and bow to one another. His song whirling through my ears like a familiar lullaby. Generations and miles that had previously separated us disintegrate, they fall like sand.

Knowning and unknowing. In the release of decisive abandonment. I know the wild, the random pieces that fit together and make this day. Fragments of expectations and observations cast aside. The familiar unknown…we stand hand in hand, chests out, hearts open, eyes wide.

We weave the wild.

#liberatedlines #liberatedlinesclear #wedontedit #wild#unknown #eyeswide #poetry