Solitude isn’t being alone.
It’s letting go of the woes and constraints of humaning, the anxious mind of existence, the social conundrum of relating.
And solitude fills you with all that feels missing.
And reminds you of who we are at the pith.
And patiently reminds you to listen. Here, you belong.
Wildness is a construct.
It still lives nameless in the light reflected on a mountain creek,
In the eyes of a human’s first beholding of the Ancients,
In the spines of Woodrat’s dinner,
In the Moonshine unapologetically claiming themself from sunset,
In the kinship of genuine, impermanent smiles,
In the loving inquiry of a furry Friend...
For a language limited in the true depths of animacy,
Wild is but a feeling,
best embraced untethered.
Have you ever dreamt your
coagulated blood alive,
until the dark red river pours upstream,
over rock and into fire…
Have you surrendered to an eddy for a breath
and found kin you’ve never felt before?
When you turn to introduce yourself,
someone inside is startled,
for your tongue has become moss
and wonder—so you ask
Who is courageous enough
to remember?
Do you know what it is to become
any thing that once was?
And
have you ever
dreamt your coagulated blood alive?
