“Some things are unchangeably wild, others are stolidly tame. The tiger is wild, and the coyote, and the owl. I am tame, you are tame. There are wild things that have been altered, but only into a semblance of tameness, it is no real change.”
Mary Oliver, Long Life: Essays and Other Writings
Reading this early this morning, I thought, “not quite.” Residing for a month here in this holy (wholly) artists’ space, I am letting the wild out, letting the wild in. It is a freedom from other eyes, even my own, a place of opening the floodgates to what may seem to ordinary eyes, madness, even possession. Maybe it is more available without words, though I think not. I know some wild writers, some feral painters, and so do you.
I know that I come quickly back to tameness, but there is a fierce pride in thrusting hands, feet, hips and mind into the tumult.