I was born into the wild, the quiet of the trees towering and rustling, the padding lumber of a bear around the bend, the hoot of an owl while skating across a hushed pond, snow piled up and wings flapping. Wild means the quiet clamoring of the forest, the loud hush of birdsong, the cautious freedom of swimming under the stars as the northern lights crackle overhead and lake weed tickles the underside of your toes. Wild parties underneath the cover of night, faces glowing across a fire piled up with crates of wood, hair blowing across the trees wolf howl.
When I moved to the city, wild became dancing amongst bodies, hair tangled with sweat, music vibrating bones and skin and the honk shriek of the car tar of too many cars, bright lights blinking out the cover of stars. The birth of a baby’s first cry to the breath of living, the last heartbeat of the last breath, the first time I saw the ocean, in the dead of winter and the way I threw off my boots and socks and ran into the cold salt letting it lick my skin, the way that first spring rain makes me run outside barefoot and twirl under the tears streaking my face, running through trails and seeing the coyote eyes watching me from the dense thicket of trees as my breath beats back my heart.
Wild is falling in love with the work, within the cubicle’s ever changing scene outside a high window, the passionate discourse of finding yourself serving in a way you didn’t know you wanted but discovered you needed beyond the paycheque, the benefits and the pension plan – finding yourself too far up a ladder invested in a security you never thought you would have, knowing that you can be that and everything else that beats against your chest.
Wild is living true to self instead of the construct of expectations, toppling them down to find yourself laying ear to heartbeat to the life beneath the dirt, planting seeds and trusting that all the elements will whip together growth.
Poke at the bones, hold firm to the root, and trust that the truth of all things is love.