Wordlessness

To be free is to be wild and to be wild is to be free. 

This is my most recent learning. 

You may notice I wear the word wild like I wear my old boots... that is to say, often. For both are worn from holding and moving me.

The wild communicates without words, without naming its experience or narrowing its essence. I wonder if the wordlessness of the wilderness is where the awe is - is where the artist lives, whittling expressions into offerings for the Wild Mother's altar. The wordless wilderness is among land, plant, river, and sea. And the wordless wilderness is also within you and me. It is the silence within. It is with moon, sun, instinct, and intuition. It is without the rules of man.  It is with fear, but without worry. There is discernment, but no judgement. There is wisdom and less distraction and information. It is not without conflict, but with tender and tremendous peace. 

I love to be wordless. Inside these painted walls and smudged windows, sound screams and bellows and mangles into the bluster and bliss of a happy, healthy family. Our children love to make sound, - to hum, holler, whisper, whine, and sing. Therefore, I take my body to the woods often. I sit beneath trees. I walk with and within the wind. I look up. And I return home in my homeostasis. 

O what a silly endeavor: this writing, these words, about wordlessness. Perhaps this post should simply be an empty canvas of silence. 

And yet I persist. 

To live from this wise, ancient place takes remembering, can take courage, and yet when the wordless wild within stands and lifts her long, light wings, one flies into freedom.