My soul sometimes goes hungry for awhile. We all need food;
perhaps to write,
work advanced mathematics,
to science things,
be in the company of others,
play Black Ops,
or feel the touch of a lover.
I need wildness. If I can’t reach it, my soul will start to go hungry. It may not starve, because there are many things that feed it. But a kernel of it will start to go dark and sink silently to the ground. The longer I go, the weaker I get. Things deform.
I wouldn’t wish it otherwise. I don’t ever want my heart to be whole without the woods and the waters and the winged and clawed things. If they go, I go. To survive, the wilderness needs freaks like me never to give in and call it unnecessary. In the dark I’ve wished not to want strange things, but don’t believe me. I don’t want to bloom where I”m planted; I want to send seeds out onto the wind and land them in a magic place.
Now where will I find it?
Sometimes it knocks on my window to tell me it’s close by.
I hope it’s close enough:
With the herons on their sycamores in the Tippecanoe River,
or the raccoon swimming to its dead snag in the pond,
the eagles on Big Pine Creek,
the frogs in the Celery Bog,
the muskrat in my pond,
the owl in my tree,
the Luna on my window.
I can find all these things near home.
But eventually, I’m going to need an alligator.