And there was this moment, after she turned 51,
when the hunger surged: a desperation, a tidal wave.
And it pointed her to something primal,
old and yet very fresh and alive.
Her whole self oriented to this new hunger
that could not be controlled, explained, or softened.
It was wild hungering for wild.
There were no words at first,
just an extraordinary, growing longing,
an insatiable ache
that said, “This is not enough! There is something else
something green and growing,
deeply vulnerable, unpredictable,
something like a vampire’s need for blood,
something like a river’s need for flow,
something like a meadow’s need for trees,
something like an animal in heat,
like a stardust child engaging with the cosmos.”
And so, the soft, soothing eyes of the past
were suddenly a gentle dream.
And she wanted, needed, the awakeness of the day
to carve trails down waterfalls
to ride the dragon’s back
to break as much as to mend
to carve as much as to float
to smell the world into being
to offer her body — over and over —
as host and humus and meal
to do cartwheels again
to dance toward death
to explore the curves and contours of the land
to prepare her bed.
And she began to understand
that the wildness in her was waking up
And this wild being
was to be no slave to any thing that had come before.
This wild one was emerging
at the risk of obligation, commitment, persona, reputation,
name, meaning, history, dreams, civility, propriety,
common sense, security, comfort, peace.
And so, the dance into the assault of her turmoil
was to give birth to something fierce and new and breathtaking.
It was to be her art, she thought.
Fierce art, yes.
But it was really to be her own fierce, new, breathtaking
This is not planned.
Wild does not concede a plan.