Wild Things

Where are the wild things?

They are deep inside of us- the place we often dare not go.

Where truth lies and darkness flourishes against the sun-kissed moon of shimmering silver. Here in the wild, wolves howl in the night, trees stir violently from the billowing wind, and fires burn in our memory of invisible paths across fields of broken branches and smoldering fumes.

We jump into the fire, unafraid of the burn.

It feels good because it is a reminder that we are alive, and that we no longer need that pack of cigarettes or fifth glass of wine. We can breathe deeply, run to the other end of town, and take chances others miss. We notice opportunities masked by the night.

All is seen and nothing is feared.

To be wild is to not condone the restrained, austere comforts consistently enforced. We choose not to live that way because we do not like sixty hour work weeks in an office cubicle, monotonously driving to and from a prison of surface level relationships and false meaning, for wasted hour upon wasted hour.

The wild things are creators,

Lovers, protectors, and seekers of meaning that feed off the land.

They believe in the natural world and avoid synthetic safety.

They embrace the challenges that come, and under the pattern of constellations drawn up above,

They are home.

I follow the path marked by my passionate ancestors, and often stray toward a place of transformation in various shades- my own uncertain, undiscovered path.

I am accompanied by a lurking shadow that I have become all too familiar with and often call by my name. A figure formed by bravery and strength that transcends my own. My path is strung with leaves of every colour, now dried out and glowing in silent hues of white, saturated with glorious history.

I’m on a mission to discover the wild imprisoned in all.

With plenty of matches at my disposal, I need to form an escape plan. I want to watch the embers burn in abundance, to release a flame so vibrant that everyone will feel the warmth. The ultimate spark of curiosity and inhibited, fearless inspiration will be ignited.

The wild things are here and now.

And it is my soul howling.

Embracing My Old Self

I am not static. As a human I am made of radiant light and shadow, with a myriad of intertwining facets, some consistent and some ever changing, some revealed and some yet to be discovered. There is something to be said about being able to recognize who you were in the past, who you are in the present, and in what ways both versions of you are the same or different now and in comparison to each other.

Growth is important and we should avoid entrapment by feelings of nostalgia or regret from that which has already occurred, but we must not lose the child-like wander and curiosity from our past. As we age and become adults, we experience more responsibility, freedom, and the amazing ability to think more deeply and live more intentionally. There is a drawback to this though, and that is the stigma of what it means to be an adult- to “grow up”, be reasonable, contribute to society in a “normal” and productive way, seek security… etc. etc. etc.
 And though I do find an importance in each of those facets of being an “adult”, that should not include becoming a dolt.

If we disregard our beautiful, fun, innocent, and instinctual child-like curiosity (the natural tendency toward creativity, innovation, exploration, and simple, spontaneous decision making, rather than over thinking everything) than what is the good in that? We should fully embrace our old self and even allow ourselves to revert to who we once were, before we discovered fear and all that fear encompasses and limits us from creating and accomplishing.

When thinking about embracing my old self, I am reminded of a brilliant book that I read titled, “Women Who Run With the Wolves”; its stories of lore and archetypes resonated deeply with me. The author recognizes the self that exists within us (not just for women, but men too) that contains more wild and instinctual tendencies that are natural, powerful, and dynamic; but this self (or soul) becomes increasingly more difficult to recognize and follow, as it is diminished by society and the idea that we must fit in and act in a certain “civilized” (boring!) way, when it actually could be more productive to society to follow a more instinctual, mindful, creative, wild path in life, like a child who prefers to colour outside of the lines, or chooses to forego the page altogether and instead chooses a blank wall to draw an abstract mural upon.



“Women Who Run With the Wolves” also introduces the idea of Life/Death/Life, in which we must allow certain parts of ourselves, our actions, our beliefs, our choices and thoughts, our insecurities and fears, to die off, so that new life can blossom inside of us. This is what happens naturally as we grow older, but instead of just ignoring who we once were- forgetting any mistakes we made, or even that which once worked for us that we assume cannot be incorporated into our new adult life- what if we were to embrace who we once were, acknowledge that which had to die, and be grateful for that? We can hold our own internal funeral to honour the past, remember what first brought us life, and feed ourselves similar nutrients to support a new life within us that reflects the past life and celebrates that which is new within our soul.

 Death does not have to be something that we fear, especially when there is something in our soul that must die for new life to spring- such as beautiful autumn leaves falling from the trees. Embracing the old self is giving the old you a genuine embrace- a hug of sorts- thanking Time for removing the parts of you that no longer bring meaning in your life. It’s as though the old self is shed, cremated, and then dispersed among wild flowers and riverbanks; the rest kept safely in a jar to be displayed in an archive of letters, books, and paintings. Time gently pushes us to move forward as a beautiful mixture of what once was and what will be.

When I embrace the old me I climb a tree, read a book, write and draw whatever I want, refuse to brush my hair or match my clothes, stop to smell the roses, ignore fear and what others think of me, and appreciate each little moment that I have to share with those I love.

Winded

We are kindred spirits.

The Wind and myself.

Always moving, searching, changing, welcoming joy and rejuvenation,

Sometimes howling, chasing,

And inevitably pissing others off.

Not everyone likes the wind.

It does not care what we look like or who we are trying to impress.

The wind just makes a way, aware but blasé, transient through our distress.

I’ve never liked the way that the wind ignores my carefully braided hair, separating the strands into a tangled, unmanageable mess, for which my centered part becomes undefined. But perhaps I should just let my hair down.

I begin to sense the beauty of the wind.

The glorious way it navigates drifting balloons across the sky,

Released by a distracted five year-old on her training-wheeled bike.

It makes a way for sailors to glide through the waters in search of undiscovered islands; for pirates to blunder around the seas in search of hidden treasure; for chimes to dance like an octopus, producing the music of nature that rings through our ears, spirals around our vertebrae, and directly into our soul.

Wind brings inspiration.

Just now I thought I was reading the right passage in my book, but I was wrong. The wind has something else to uncover, as its hands suddenly take my dog-eared page and flip it all the way back to page 17: “…all of this only takes somewhere between one and two minutes, so I haven’t actually wasted that much time. Still, it leaves me winded. I go back to trying to breathe, slowly and calmly, and I finally notice the one-inch picture frame that I put on my desk to remind me of short assignments.”

And there that word is; winded.

I think how wonderful of a feeling that can be, to have dealt with drudgery,

Worked hard

Endured tension

And to then release that to the world and just pause.

Allow time to pass.

To be winded is a legitimate excuse to breathe and draw attention to the things that perhaps were missed along the way.

There are a lot of intimate details to be captured by a one-inch picture frame.

I make a mental note to fashion one for myself.

In this moment I am still.

Whenever the wind comes it seems to accelerate my movement as I walk downhill, and I lose control as my hair blows across my face,

Blindfolding me.

As I’ve said, I’ve never liked that feeling, and so I instead choose to experience something different.

Perhaps I can become one with the wind.

I sit, breathe, let go of control, and let my hair flow, finding contentment in not having to move or decide on anything. I just listen to the breeze and ask my spirit what it wants of me.

It brought you to my table.

 Aggravated and flustered, with scorching hot coffee overflowing onto your freshly ironed white shirt, notebooks toppling onto the ground as you attempt to balance too much on your forearm, the clock reflecting a time later than what you had hoped.

“Please excuse me. I’m so sorry. Oh lord I’m probably so late and this coffee is so hot. And my class is all the way in Smullin. Miss, what’s the time? 10:19? Oh yes I’m already late. UGH…”

Somehow you still manage to share a smile and laughter with me, as you continue to rant and sip from your coffee cup, now carefully set on the table next to my almost empty mason jar, containing an ounce of apple spiced tea, and adorned with a straw tied bow, creatively wrapped around a honey pot shaped tag, bearing the words Collect Moments in pencil.

“Is your class at 10:20?”

“Yes. I’ve got to go. Thank you so much!”

“Good luck!” If it helps, I spilled toothpaste on my sweatshirt this morning and had another last minute change of plans that brought me here to this sun-stained, umbrella covered table, rather than going to work.

A warm feeling of joy erupts from my core as I welcome the wind to sit beside me and join as I continue to read and write. I reach for the remains of my tea and find that a bee has made it’s way to the honey pot. Collect Moments.

The wind lifts my pencil and I write everything down.

Unseen by Human Eyes

I will never accurately see myself for who I am on the outside. No matter how much I study my exterior, the lenses from which I view myself are mystified by the encapsulation of my own body. And I find that what lies in my heart completely affects the way that I view others, and myself, as though the heart exists as its own lens to the world.

I know what I think lies within my heart and I know what I see in the mirror, but mirrors are distorting. I find myself looking at a stranger with features that are very much mine, but clearly flipped- a reflection of me but not me.

And unlike those who I interact with on a daily basis, who can assess me in moments of intimacy, I cannot look directly into my eyes. I do not see what my heart reflects, nor do I see my eccentricities, mannerisms, or natural tendencies in the way that others do. Furthermore, what others do see accounts for only half of the equation of who I am- if that; therefore; I truly do not know what I look like.

I'm a shadow

I can gather observations vocalized by others and piece that information together into the puzzle that is me- a conglomeration of various skewed and varied perceptions and insights- but the pieces will never quite fit together. When applied, some pieces may incorporate a key bit of information, or richness to who I am, but be incompatible, and I will still be left wondering what’s true. I find that the most genuine and truthful things are those that are not seen.

Perhaps the most accurate version of myself will never be seen- at least not by human eyes.

I imagine myself having an outer body experience, inspecting each facet of myself, counting the freckles across my nose and cheeks, examining my scars, the golden stars reflected in my eyes, and the smile gradually formed by my lips, exuding warmth and gratefulness as I wipe away the opalescent tears shimmering against my lashes.

Then I wrap my arms around myself in a loving embrace, taking note of the frailties and strengths in my build. My physical response is one of hesitation at first, but then I effortlessly meld into the hug and become one with myself.

In that moment the outer body experience is no more and I am content knowing that what I can see of myself, I can live with. I will let the fairies see me for who I am.

I would rather spend my time with the unseen, the unknown, and be driven by curiosity to further discover the beauty of my soul within; a soul interacting with this intricate, unique, and strange body I’ve been given. For as I said before, it is with the unseen where real truth lies.

I Am a Woman Entangled by Shadows

I am a woman entangled by shadows of who I once was,

who I no longer choose to be, 

cannot be,

and who I always will be.

I often feel a weight on my shoulders hovering too close for comfort.

It clings on to me, wrapping its limbs around my every fiber.

If I stand straight enough, head held high with confidence,

perhaps that curled figure will release its grip and topple over,

becoming only a strange, distant memory.

A pre-existing notion that I’ve let go.

I must first find my misplaced head though, as it’s wandered off again

into another world where such peculiarities do not exist.

I want to accept the reality of my vehement shadows, for they are what make me whole. Comprised of different shades, desires, and curiosities, they form the complex, wild, and inspired woman before you.

I have weight and I am not ashamed.

Collage & Poetry 

September 7, 2016

Perceptions Create Us or Destroy Us

Our bodies are beautiful.

Let me repeat that.

Our bodies are beautiful.

When I say “Our” that includes You and Me. Yes, our bodies are truly beautiful. Often times I find myself waking each morning with a new perception of how my body looks, depending on how bloated or flat my stomach feels; how clear, dry, soft, or bumpy my complexion is; how long and lean my legs feel or how broad and masculine my shoulders feel- my perception is ever shifting. And though it’s a blessing to have working limbs, muscles, and organs that keep me moving, growing, creating, and living, I tend to neglect that fact.

I look upon my body as some sort of curse. Rather than embrace my God given beauty and appreciate the health that I do have, I mentally tear myself apart into decrepit fragments, for which I become

an ugly, useless being,

a poisonous apple,

a vessel for rejection.

I have a scar on my face, located right above the bridge of my nose, between my eyes. I cannot un-see this, a scar remaining from the eleven stitches I once had. There it has been since I was three years old-one of my earliest memories. I also have permanent stretch marks and scarring along my lower hips and upper thighs, as a result of the constant growing pains I endured, even through my first year of college. I currently have a blemish on my face from stressing this morning and sweating on my afternoon run.

And who cares?

How amazing is it that my body is so resilient that after splitting my head open at the age of three, all that is left is a little scar? How amazing is it that I went through what it takes to receive stretch marks from growing pains- to have grown to a height of five foot ten and become the tallest female in my family? How amazing is it that through all the stress I allow myself to feel, all I am left with is a measly blemish? How amazing is it that I have what it takes to run and breathe?

My body is beautiful for all that it does and for all of its flaws.

Your body is beautiful for all that it does and for all of its flaws.

There was a lady at the gym in the same vicinity as me; calmly stretching as I did some brief meditation and abdominal work. She was at least three times the size of me, and she was beautiful. I’m not sure there was a single limb on her body that could be described as “slim”, but goodness was she limber.  This woman could stretch and contort herself in ways I could not dream of doing, and I had to stop myself from staring. She was absolutely comfortable in her body and I could see self-love and grace flowing through every fiber of her being. She glowed. And there I sat having just been thinking, “I’m not good enough, I must focus on somehow getting a more muscular and flatter stomach”, yada yada yada.

Mentally I shifted gears right away. Just like that I looked at my reflection in the clear wall to my right and said to myself with both ease and ferocity, “You are enough. You are beautiful. The end.”

I then turned to the lady beside me, who was stretched out along the gym floor with her large PDX carpet printed shirt, looked her in the eyes, and we exchanged the most warm and knowing smiles. I mentally thanked her for being such a beautiful woman of strength and flexibility, and she mentally thanked me for being a beautiful woman of hope and cardio stamina.

I then looked to my legs, stretched my arms as far as they could go, only barely touching my toes, and thanked my legs for supporting me on the treadmill and in my every day ventures.

Instead of finishing my work out and sweating more, I discerned that I’d worked out something much more important- the undeniable beauty of the human body, and I immediately made my way home so that I could sit and write it down. And though I know in the morning I will be tempted to wake up and immediately Destroy myself as I look in the mirror, I am choosing to instead behold the beauty bestowed upon me, and be the Creator I am meant to be.

I sincerely hope that you choose to do the same- to be a vessel for acceptance and grace. For how can we truly recognize and appreciate the beauty of others if we cannot recognize and embrace our own?