The Cry of the Wild

In returning to my village of people who grew up around me like a fairy ring, I am filled with a settled knowing. I feel my feet here. My place at this table is worn and comfortable. They know who I am, or who I have been.

The work I do flourishes as if I have been let loose on a spring field of newly emerging grasses after a long winter of dirt and hay.

It was not a long winter, it was a long summer. A summer of mountain play, sleeping more nights under the stars than under a roof.

The who I am out there is more present to the building thunder clouds. More aware of the phase of the moon. More spacious mimicking the milky way. Playful like the bunny. I see more, terrain, like the hawk.

The who I am out there, in the wild, can play the role of who I am in the village, it is a well-practiced role. Yet, when I play it, fall into it and become it, I lose something – wild.

I want to cry out like a lion, taken from the wild to the zoo. Something is dying in me. Can’t you see it?

But I don’t want to scare the city dwellers and disrupt the unspoken code of conduct. The one I signed before I knew what I was doing.

The glitz of the city was so bright I could not read the words and at that point I did not care. I wanted to move away from the drawl of the country, the old ways, the unrefined quiet that filled the days.

But now I want to go back and study the contract. To see my signature on the paper – in blood. The blood of lost time, the blood of serving my people in all the ways I knew.

I stayed to belong to something I thought was better than me. I thought if I could blend into them, into that, then I would have arrived.

Yet, witnessing the loss of the wild in my own body is crushing. I no longer see the moon each night, nor the stars. The ambient light of the city brighter than the milky way. The noise of the cars louder than the crickets.

There is something so full in the sound of the crickets. Something so hollow in the sound of the cars.

But now that I am in love with myself, and know I belong the greater gift of life on the planet, I cannot sacrifice the wild in me to be in the city.  I am breaking the contract.

 

Yet, I chose and still choose this human place of settlement that has let itself go a bit. too. far.

As time passes, and I settle more into my role, my village, I meditate to feel the spaciousness of the wild. To be able to bring that space to my people is the goal.

Would I change the years that have given me my love and my offspring? No.

Would I change the place that has given me my friends and memories? No.

Well then maybe I am simply building the capacity to hold both the city and the wild. And in holding both I cannot escape the suffering and the pain of being where I am and longing to be somewhere else.

I cannot stop feeling the cries all around me of the wild dying and the people not noticing they are bleeding from signing in blood. From going too far. From building a culture that must die to one thing to belong to another.

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