I'm revisiting, after a lot of years, Clarissa Pinkola Estés's Women Who Run With The Wolves and oh good grief, this time it's personal.
I only got as far as the third page of the intro before I cried.
Although I did not call her by that name then, my love for the Wild Woman began when I was a little child. I was an aesthete rather than an athlete, and my only wish was to be an ecstatic wanderer. Rather than chairs and tables, I preferred the ground, trees and caves, for in those places I felt I could lean against the cheek of God.
Substitute hedge for cave (we don't have many caves in Wiltshire) and Nature for God (I had no awareness of who or what God was supposed to be until I was way older) and that is me. Finding a personal truth like this is one of the few things that get me instantly doing the squirty tears thing. The last time it happened was during the meditation I did for Susannah's Inner Sage exercise. Similar trigger. Big, spontaneous, snotty tears. Tender, this inner wild woman.
If I'm supposed to be de-cluttering my mind, body and spirit, I need to get away from the computer and outside a lot more. We are all so stir crazy after the cold, cold winter and so ready to get back into the fresh air.
I have veg beds to plan, flower beds to create for bees and butterflies, chicken coops to build and of course my dogs (and me) to get back into shape. Evie needs more exercise and time spent outside. I'm looking forward to introducing her to my old friend, the Wild Woman and in the meantime, 'ecstatic wanderer'... how purely beautiful is that concept?
I think I'll dwell on that a while.
