Today I was asked what it means to be wild, to have a wild heart. What a great question. Upon being asked this question, I realized I don’t really know what being 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.