Wildness, in my own terms

Today I was asked what the term ‘wild’ means to me. What a great question.  Upon being asked this question, I realized I don’t really know what ‘wild’ means to me.

So I will write until the answer is drawn out from some deep place within my sheltering being.

Wild isn’t a word I can define for myself. It is thought, emotion, freedom, liberation. It is being helplessly drawn into myself and thrust back out again. It is touching the untamed, uninhibited wild things we have lost connection with, both in this very real world and within ourselves.

It is a connection to that which devours and that which is devoured.

Wild is walking through the safe field where you can see everything around you and your eyes see every step your feet take, and then going past that field to the boundary of the dark wood with its sentinel trees and roots to trip over. It’s touching elemental components here in this wood that may be dangerous (you must drink the water here to live, but be warned that it may have parts unseen to the naked eye that will chew you up inside and leave you quivering on the bathroom floor).

Wild is daring to touch your very tender center and facing head-on what you encounter.

Wild is life.

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To be held

You’re not alone darling.

Do you feel alone?

 

Why?

 

That slight coolness you feel

Is only my cupped hand

Laid along your cheek.

 

Feel my breath near your temple

As I kiss you with all the tenderness

Of a mother wolf

With her firstborn pup.

 

I’ll sit with you tonight

If you can’t bear all the world’s weight

In your sacred center.

 

I’ll lie curled next to you

And hold you while

You toss your way through the long night.

 

You’re not alone darling.

Do you still feel alone?

 

Why?

 

I’ll step when you step

And when you stop,

I’ll hold your elbow

In a silent show of support.

 

If you need me to,

I’ll hold your heart

In the palm of my hand.

 

Just until it can hold itself

And learn to beat again.

 

You’re not alone darling.

Do you still feel alone?

 

I’m here.

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On waiting for love to be returned

What happens when the one you love doesn’t love you back, at least, not in the way you expect or want?  What chemical changes occur in your brain, your psyche, your atomic center?  For surely something of that magnitude does not leave you unchanged.  Maybe you can’t tell, not yet, but you will darling.

It’s easy to just think to yourself that all things happen for a reason and that people are placed in your path for a purpose.  But what if you have inside you this giant supernova lovebomb and half of it (your half) is saying yes, yes, YES and the other half just… isn’t ready?  Can you sit there with your legs crossed, hands quietly folded in your lap, and just think that it’s all part of some divine plan?

Divine plan or not, if I could, I would tell the moon to stop it’s heavenly pilgrimage across the night sky.  I would order the tides to stop ebbing and keep the sun from rising to caress the edge of the mountains.

Just until I get some answers.

I would ask, “how can you not FEEL this?”  And I would take your hand and place it upon my wildly beating heart.  There, can you feel that pounding?  This is the force of the tides I am holding back.  I would then place your hand on my smooth stomach. Here is contained the desire of the moon as she sighs, hovering with all of her luminous self, curtained by celestial bodies she can see but never touch.  Next I would have you touch my lips with your [electric] fingertips and I would tell you that my lips burn with the passion of the sun, who waits to greet the edge of the sea with a kiss.

I ask you now, can you still say that my love is unreturned? If it is true, and you feel you must reject my love until you are ready, just know that I will wait.

Forever I will wait.

I will come back to this space again and again, infinitely again until you can sink into it with me. And when you arrive, I will look at you and take your hand. I will have no need to tell you that I’ve been waiting, because you know.  Your eyes will reveal to me that the lull of the tides pushed you toward me.  But you were not ready.  Every time the moon hid her face and wept, you felt it in your heart.  But you were not ready.  And every time you watched the sun come up in praise of the morning, you knew.  But you were not ready.   Still you are not ready. But when you are, I will be here.  And when we meet in this space that I’ve held, then the real loving can begin.

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A heart of sea-glass

I see you there darling.  I see you guarding your sea-glass heart, foamy green and specked with red.  I know you remember its inception, how it started out crystal-clear and over a lifetime was tossed about in your ocean center.  I watched with you as it shattered, all sharp edges and fearful points.  I saw you worry that others would be afraid of its knife-edge sharpness, so you threw it to your ocean self and let it get tossed around, cutting up your own tender insides.  And now, this sea-glass heart of yours is rough and ragged, but still captivating in its beauty.  What are the odds that it would survive being capsized in your internal shipwreck?  Only the most stalwart of hearts make it out alive, and now I see you hold your brave heart in your warm palm.  Go ahead and tuck it into your pocket for later.

When the moon is full and the candles are lit, take it out of your pocket.  Smooth your fingers over it, feeling the rough lines and caressing its sea-worn shape.  If you’re feeling even braver, hold it out and let it linger in the night air to be caressed by the salty breeze.

So many of us hold our bruised heart so close, afraid of letting words of life and love weave themselves around it.  Afraid of alchemical changes that would, could, desperately want to transform it.  There is magic in letting go, in letting transformation happen, even if you need the courage that only whiskey and firelight can bring to help you let go.  When the time is right, bring out that bottle of whiskey and light that fire.  Bow down your head to the very core of yourself, the one who calls.  Stare yourself in the eyes as you bring out your shattered heart.  Kiss your reflection as you offer yourself what you think of as a broken memory of completion, and let the truth sink it that what you thought broken is wholly Holy.  And as you gaze in wonder at your most sacred heart, full of torment and bruises and midnight phone calls to the only support line you have, let it all fall away.  Disrobe your heart and see the naked, beautiful truth it carries.

Be your own savior, the one to arrive with a hammer in one hand and a love letter in the other.  Rise up to be the warrior already living inside you.  Breathe life into her, for your breath is the last thing for which she waits to feel her own first heartbeat.  Let fade away what no longer wishes to stay.  Invite in that which will heal you.  And you’ll see that your sea-glass heart is perfect the way it is, that nothing else would ever fit the shape you’ve left for it in your hollowed-out center.

Gently let your heart call you home, let its steady rhythm show you the way.

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How to heal your own heart

Healing a broken heart is never easy.  Especially when the one breaking your heart is not the one you expected to do the breaking.

Yes, broken hearts are tricky things.  Just when you think you seal one crack, another appears.  Maybe it’s a different crack, or maybe the same crack that found a new place to surface.  Either way, it’s impossible to hold the whole of your eternal heart in your small hands, keeping its insides from spilling out.

But perhaps that’s why hearts break.

Perhaps the only way to get a good look at what’s inside these steady,  rhythmic creations is to break them.  Maybe you’ve broken your own heart before, but more likely you needed someone else to do it for you.

Someone with whom you made a holy pact in some other ethereal place.  Someone who stepped forward when you asked, who will help me see the insides of my own tender self?  That someone stepped forward, maybe shyly, saying in a small, awe-filled voice, “I will do this sacred act for you.” And we, we forgot those vows our souls made with each other.  We left the memories of those sacred acts behind when we entered this realm; we decided to feel the full emotional range of opening up our most tender areas.  And what a range it is, from whispered solitude to sinuous, passionate flame.

And so, we’re left here with strong hearts that crack open like an accordion, to the music of tears and soft, bitter sighs scented with whiskey.  And each holy heartbreak allows us yet another bold opportunity to see our own inner workings.  Does this make it easier to hold the broken parts, or do you still feel like rusty needles are nestled in your stomach?  Do you still raise your face to the clouds and ask of the rain, why have you made your home inside my heart?  Ask of the elements these questions if you must.  And when you’ve had your fill of sorrow and you’re ready to come home to yourself, find one of those beautifully sculpted, divinely created cracks in your heart.  Hollow it out a little, but do it with love.  And then, when the space looks like the exact size and shape to fit all you are, climb inside.  Bring your softest blanket and paint your lips wine-red.  Curl up here in this heart space.  Fill it with your regrets, your unrequited love, your sorrow and your pain over this boomerang life.  Close yourself up tight, and when you’re ready to step out again, you’ll know.  You’ll feel that internal nudge that it’s safe again.  The rusty needles, the hard-edged hammer, the overgrown vines that choke; they’ll have been turned to softly scented pine needles, to a soft paintbrush perfect for sealing heart cracks, to fruiting vines, and you’ll hear your soul say, here love.  I’ve got you. And in that moment, step into the light.

You’ll  notice that when you put the pieces back together, they don’t quite fit the same way.  You’ll find that your heart has grown in size, and has stretch marks from when you crawled inside it, safe in its enveloping shelter.  So find a new way to put those pieces together, one that allows it to grow and reach new heights, new ways of experiencing love.

And step out confidently once more, with a smile on your lips and a new song in your fresh heart.

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The fire that burns you also heals you

I fell in love with someone.

It was a whirlwind, a bright spark, a rush of desire that I have felt with no one else yet on this earth. Yes, I examined each and every one of my relationships. I have concluded that even with memories faded and tarnished and changed in the back of my mind, nobody else has called to my spirit and my body with as much magnetism as I felt the instant I met this person.

It was the catalyst that prompted me to make my move out of a long-term relationship that long felt wrong and to examine (or try to examine) every inch of my life, heart, mind, and what I want out of life. This relationship introduced me to aspects of myself that had lain latent for such a long time.

It opened up new pathways that widened invisible cracks in my being that were mere scratches, unnoticeable until the force for which they were waiting made itself present. The sparks of this relationship ignited a flame, the same sensuous flame of desire that prompts poets to try to grasp and understand and breath life into.

And now here I sit, burning with this flame that is on the verge of running rampant.

I stand before that flame, asking of myself to go into it and see what it holds on the other side. I am not afraid to examine this inferno. I am, in fact, eagerly staring into the inferno feeling its heat, hungry for the truths, wondering whether they will be hard and bitter to my taste or if they will be soft, sweet, and honey-flavored.

I shake and tremble and the fierce howl of desire forces its way up past cracked lips, sliding past broken sighs and fading cries. All that I am cannot contain this cracked-open dam, and I am no longer content with what was. I have the scent now of what can be, and hungry am I for that quarry. I want great, not good. I want passion and lust and aching desire and to get lost in the gaze of my beloved.

I want spark to meet spark, and to temper this raging firestorm into something more manageable.

Always I burn.

I went seeking growth and was met by a wild woman who was curled up, whimpering and waiting to be released. I went seeking fertile land on which to plant my seeds and in one serendipitous instant I was met by cracked and parched soil. I fed that parched soil with a full ocean of tears (with their salty essence and moon dust minerals) and the syrupy sweetness of relentless passion and still it asked for more.

I sang and danced upon the land, using feet and hands to push together the cracks and adding tears to make a ragged and muddy scar to hold it together, even as the pain of it burned me. I held my face to the sun and said I’ll take more, for my pain is what allowed healing to at last take root into those dusty wastelands.

My pain cleansed out the wounds in the landscape of my being, and healing full of grace and honey began its slow slide into the cracks.

And oh, this sacred concoction, it burns. And I burn still more, rising to face this wicked healer.

And still I will rise in the morning, and even with tears in my eyes, I will ask for more. And when the fire dims and ashes are all that is left of what once was but is no longer, these ashes will give rise to something new. I will ask for more until at last a day will dawn, diaphanous and hazy with birdsong floating in the breeze, when I will be robed with grace instead of shame-torn garments.

I will await that day more or less patiently, trusting that it will indeed arrive. And so, love, should you.

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Snow in the spring

Spring is supposed to be here

full of green, and warm showers.

The rain this morning had me worried

but the weather report soothed my fears.

47 degrees by the afternoon! Or

something like that.

So I left for work.

But the rain continued

and it hovered around 30 all afternoon.

My heart was wrung out,

the consistency of wet jeans, and

full of worry for you both.

For even though you have a shelter,

you refuse to use it.

Is it the sound the rain makes

on the metal roof?

Or do you feel full of your

wild ancestors, with nothing

but trees and cunning to

protect them from the elements?

I came home to find you shivering

and quite miserable.

As I fed you hay to

jump-start your own

internal warming abilities,

my heart shivered too,

bemoaning that there was

nothing else I could do.

Then an idea floated through my head

Did one of you send it?

I brought out a towel

so I could rub down your bodies.

Another idea tumbled through

my mind.

And I put a towel in the drier.

Racing back out to you

I draped it over your back.

And you,

you  stopped eating

and lifted your head.

Eyes softened, and we stood together.

One, a shivering horse and

the other, a woman trying to

dredge up some mothering instincts.

And I wished that

someone would drape

a warm towel

over my shivering heart.

But I suppose you did that

when you radiated your appreciation

for the time I took to

warm your body.

I hold hope that tomorrow

will be gentler.

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