"Like a true nature's child,
We were born, born to be wild."—Mars Bonfire
The wild spirit in me revels in wonder. She experiences magic in every moment, in every breath she feels me inhale, in every thump she feels my heart beat, in every sensation against my skin, in the beauty she witnesses in everyday life. She sees and experiences it all even when I am walking through life a little sleepy or distracted with my eyes down.
The wild spirit in me calls me awake. She summons me to sunsets and to marvel at the muscular trunk of the old gum tree, the tiny grasshopper playing dead on the concrete in front of my feet, the cool sea wrapping its salt around my skin.
The wild spirit in me doesn’t colour inside the lines or outside the lines. She creates her own raw and messy masterpieces then burns them to nothingness. She does not collect things. She has no desire to carry excess baggage with her because all she cares about is the experience of the experience.
The wild spirit in me moves to her own rhythm, in sync with the river that flows within her. She expresses herself in sounds, some of which only she knows the meaning and some have no meaning at all.
The wild spirit in me feels wildly alive in this moment knowing it’s everything that matters, experiencing life right here right now and not the doing, striving and achieving that we preoccupy ourselves with. She smiles with compassionate amusement when I live with one foot in tomorrows and one foot in yesterdays.
The wild spirit in me expresses what is alive in me in the moment it is to be expressed. She does not hoard them for safe-keeping in case of famine or shove them down and keep them hidden because of shame. She expresses and she lets go. She says what she really means: okay, fine, stressed, I don't know, do not exist in her vocabulary. She speaks the words beneath the words. And when all she feels is silence, she says nothing at all.
The wild spirit in me loves freedom and impulse. She says yes when she wants to say yes and no when she wants to say no. She offers no explanation for her choices because she knows she doesn't have to justify her decisions to life. She despises rules, timetables, obligations, to-do-lists, schedules and busyness. She cannot be tamed or controlled. Not even my own self-imposed deadlines or imploring can make her comply with my small will.
The wild spirit in me turns her nose up at square boxes. And round ones. Rectangle ones. Triangle ones. She knows there is no box she fits into, no one way that she can be defined. No book could accurately describe her because spirit is a wordless experience. The best way you can know her is to look at her within my eyes.
The wild spirit in me fears nothing—not life, not death, not nothingness. She is rooted in a realm that is beyond time and human form that my human self is only learning to see. She knows that I still feel fear but she is always encouraging me to follow her lead. She knows fear will keep me frozen, on the straight and boring path where I might be safe...safely dying inside. The wild spirit in me loves derailment. She wants me to dance the path that brings me fully alive.
The wild spirit in me wants me to leap into each unknown moment, to revel in soaring and climbing and even falling. To smear myself in mud as well as wrap my skin in silk. To howl with sorrow and cackle with joy. The wild spirit in me wants me to surrender, to see life as it really is and not the way I think it should be. She wants me to drop the mask that hides her, to play relentlessly but not play a role, to remember who I really am and surrender who I've been tamed to be.
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