You may not know it yet, but you want to wail at the top of your lungs.
and invite the storm
like mad King Lear.
You want to feel the battering winds
Not giving a damn.
There are waves, too, crashing below. And you want to hear them, pounding out their rhythm, so strong that you can dance your own dance to their music.
And sand. Yes. Yes!
You want to dig your pretty pink toenails into the sand,
deeper and deeper, until those fine grains erase all artifice and you are simply a barefoot woman with sand encrusted feet.
Your limbs ache to be released from their straight jacket, flung into the mysterious air, clumsily flailing and groping for something real to touch and hold.
Something real and messy and scary.
Juicy peaches that leave your neck draped with their remnants.
Pratfalls on hard concrete.
Things that leave you bruised and sticky, but so alive.
With dirt under your fingernails.
You may not know it yet, but you want to be the woman with dirt under her fingernails.
The woman who wails at the top of her lungs.
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A few months ago the women’s creative wisdom circle dove into our wildish natures with paint and clay and stories. After that kind of experience you never know when the wild woman will show up, demanding you unleash her words! During this next week I’ll be turning toward the call of my wildness, visiting some places that are near and dear to me: the Pacific ocean and the old-growth redwoods.
How do you heed the call of your wildness?
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