Member-only story
Wild
Something I am not
Not any longer, anyway. What was it to be wild? To be free in that way, or at least to feel that way?
Wild. Wild gentians. Wild ginger. Wild berries.
What do we mean when we say wild? Do we mean that guy leaning insouciantly against the wall, one tennis-shoed foot up on the wall behind him, tucked into his leather jacket, observing the world, waiting for something to happen, rakish hair just so? Is he wild and not menacing only because he’s handsome?
Wild. The baby bears we saw in Shasta. The one that ran along the path and up the mountainside to escape my son on our hike. The one I glimpsed, also clambering up a hillside, glancing over his shoulder at me. Were they wild?
Wild versus domesticated.
If I were wild, if I remembered wild, would I be less anxious? What is anxiety if not a holding onto shoulds or musts? What is anxiety if not a belief that we’re somehow doing it wrong? That we’re imposters in our own lives, that if we’re not careful, we’ll be found out, discovered?
Discovered to be what? A fraud? How can I be a fraud if I’m simply trying to find my way? Ah, but there’s the rub. Am I trying? Do I take myself seriously? Do I engage fully in my own life?
