tender wildness

what if being Monstrous is radical kindness?

North Oregon Coast retreat during a Bomb Cyclone. photo by anne richardson

dear sojourner,

tender. perhaps it is the full moon. the persistent rain and gray. my father’s upcoming birthday (he would have been 102 on tuesday.) some personal ebbs. or another layer of internal dissolving. these days i wake tender. my heart. my belly. my soul. tears rise to the surface then fall back inward, not quite able to erupt. the other day the gardeners were tending the grounds where i rent|reside, raking leaves from beneath the shrubs and my heart hurt for the small Beings whose homes were disrupted. destroyed. when i asked if it was necessary, the kind man said that those who directed their work (the condo association) liked it to be “neat and tidy.” he knew about letting the leaves decay where they lie, but does as requested. “neat and tidy.” nothing in our world is neat and tidy these days, so i suppose folks are trying to invoke an illusion where they can.

winter Sun arcs low in the sky as Solstice draws near, barely scrapping the tops of the Douglas Firs and Red Cedars. when Clouds are scant Sun beams into my living space, a natural warming against the cold. Crows, which are murderously plentiful where i live, fly back and forth over the building. their shadows glide inside, flying through as if walls did not exist. fly through me. “take me with you,” i whisper, extending my shadowy-wing arms, hoping to lift off and pierce the walls.

what, after all is “shadow?" is it only shade and not an extension of a Being’s essence? of me? where does our shadow start and stop? our shadows are longest this time of year in the low state of Sun, extending out out out along the ground, embracing the rest this time of year invites. in this deepening state of more dissolving, i feel more shadow than flesh some days. a tender shadow. a shadow that wants to rest.

i dream of visiting a “dark sky sanctuary,” where ambient light is absent. where Stars|Planets|Moon and more fill the night sky. to rest on Land all night and listen. watch. wonder. weep.

the dance of Dark and Light fascinates me. Dark being first in creation myths and evolving discoveries about the Universe. Dark giving up totality to invite in Light. the first loss perhaps. the first time Grief entered the room. that Dark out of loneliness allowed in the companionship of Light. in her book Winter Solstice, Nina Maclaughlin tells the myth of Khaos:

“Khaos emerged at the birth of the universe, preceding the rest of the primeval gods. A state of disordered darkness, a void where nothing was named. Her name meant gap, chasm, yawn. Absense. Form was exhaled from the lung of that darkness. Right now, the darkness takes a deep breath in. […] There’s no flying without land, no emptiness without an edge. The boundaries begin to dissolve.” pg 18

i spent nourishing time with one of my dearest friends the other day. i shared about the new to me discovery of Whale falls (so fascinating! click the link for a short video.) we continued an ongoing discussion about my attempt to try and live a less “human-centric” life. one thought was to push back against the idea that humans are the only beings that makes meaning by creating myths. origin stories. that pass along stories from generation-to-generation. or even tell stories every day. imagine what Whale fairy tales might be?

consider Whales, these beings with complex songs and language that we have little understanding of. they have been around longer than humans, navigating Oceans and survived multiple epochs over 50 million years. how have they made sense of their becoming. of humans massacring their pods. polluting Oceans with sound and garbage. stealing their children. what songs have the Whales sung to make sense of their own probable extinction?

as i watched the brief Whale fall video, i imagine a time when the bones of all the Whales are scavanged clean. a time their stories and songs, those held deep in their bone essense, will rise rise rise to the surface as a lament. heard beyond the atmophere of Earth, out beyond the bounds of our Universe. songs of Dark and Light. stories of wild tenderness. in a language beyond language. always resounding at the edge of somewhere.

North Oregon Coast retreat, november 2024, photos by anne richardson

tender. these thoughts churning, like a stormy sea in my body. a month ago i visited the North Oregon Coast on retreat. visited during a Bomb Cyclone and high, high tides. even low tides followed a call to disrupt the definition of “low” and clamored to rail against the grasses that offered boundary between Ocean and human structure. Shoreline, where the life-death-life cycle are in liminal conversation moment-by-moment, the ever shifting Seascape offered me much needed perspective on my own tiny place on this planet. the Monoliths that speak in a language so ancient, so slow that it is only by remaining still in patience that i can glimpse a glimmer of their souls. a gift they’ve allowed me over multiple visits. moments after i leave the Coast, my heart wants to return.

and slowly, ever so slowly, i am listening to recordings from the Becoming Monster Festival that seems so long ago during Samhain (what is time again?) when the veil was so thin. where talk of Death and Grief where not shied away from. where “cure” and “care” were brought back to their roots and allowed space away from the pathologizing of today’s healthcare establishment.

the question of what is “cure” and “healing” in a world that monetizes both under a multi-billion dollar industry called “wellness” has me holding these words loosely. wanting them to breathe and not be trapped under the weight of “business models” and other boxes that have constrained them. where promises are made to make us “whole,” but i am coming to understand that “whole” is no longer what i seek.

all these questions stirring and i don’t expect an answer but oh, i long for the Crows to come back for me! then i remembered the poem “Sometimes a Wild God” by Tom Hirons and have listened to it several times over the last few of days (if you click on no other link, please click this one.) “yes” my heart said, “this is speaking to your wildness and your tenderness.” yes, to the wound not being “healed.” and yes to the shadow.

as i listened to a Becoming Monster’s conversation between Sophie Strand and David Abram (sorry the recording is not publicly available) on the topic “Becoming Bodily,” what is lingering as i write this is that our bodies (and all bodies and Beings) are in constant flux. we are “matter meeting matter in the world,” as Sophie stated. to be “whole” is not possible because with every breath we take we exhale a part of our being and those that reside in us and inhale what is in the world around us. reciprocity. as Báyò Akómoláfé said in a 12-12-24 Facebook post “….selves and bodies are neither resolved nor resolvable.”

i am prone as anyone in the “health and wellness” community (the box i have to check for my business) to use the generic and vague words of healing, wholeness, balance, etc. i desire(d) these for myself. and i honestly feel i offer a service to those i meet with in holding tender space, even while i continue to reevaluate my own internal concepts of healing, well-being and spirituality. i am not opposed to going to doctors and seeking medical and complimentary/alternative care. AND i continue listen to the longings of the Earth. to the shifting nature of all Beings and see what is no longer working. asking “why am i drawn to this Monstrous way?” remaining curious amid the complexity.

Monstering. i heard a “definition” from Sophie and David last night that i felt i could finally repeat with out tripping over myself—at least in this moment: “the Monstrous is always not the norm. what we define against. humans have been killing and destroying for 1,000’s of years. being kind is Monstrous. leading with tenderness. noticing with the heart. that is Monstrous.” (not verbatim…my best listening of the recording!)

allowing tenderness. allowing one to lead with the heart. allowing leaves to lie because Beings we can’t see but are critical to the ecology exist amid the unsettling clutter. allowing tears to rise and erupt because that is what the heart asks.

we are living in a time of disruption. living in wild tenderness. or tender wildness is Monstrous. i don’t know how this will unfold in my life. besides tender and wild, the other word that keeps poking at me is “allow.” listening with my heart to the Whales, Robins, Fog, gurgling of my own digestive “biome” and being patient. being aware of life-death-life cycles: the Seal that washed up where Ecola Creek converged with Ocean and became a feast for Western Gulls and other Beings. the wonderous awe of it.

i’m curious about what is stirring in you (i realize as a “wild introvert” i tend to wander down a lot of rabbit holes!) plus it has been a while since my last post, so a lot of unwoven threads. if you want to take a moment to reflect:

• does a sense of order (“neat and tidy”) help you through your days? no judging here, i do like my rituals and routines!

• what would it look like for you to be wild. if you listened to the reading of the poem, “Sometimes a Wild God,” was there a line or part of the poem that resonated with you?

• how about the movement between Dark and Light? do you find yourself wanting to flood Dark with Light? what is your relationship with your shadow?

• have you been to a “dark sky sanctuary?” if so, i would love to hear about your experience!

• what does “wholeness,” “healing” “wellness” and other “health” related concepts mean to you? feel free to share your thoughts. i realize i am a bit out of the box, so don’t expect others to agree, but i do hope you are curious. that is how i started this journey. (and i have friends who are receiving/have received care under this complicated system that would likely not be here. i am grateful for the care they receive(d). no bianary thinking here.)

• how are you being tender and kind to your heart? and to those around you?

usually it is small birds that stop by to sip from the birdbaths, Song Sparrow, Black Capped Chickadee, House Finches. the other day is was Robin, large by comparison. in my old ways of thinking i would have thought “oh, you came to see me.” now i am grateful for the gift of my noticing…the brilliant red-orange feathers on his breast, the sharp black eyes that met mine for a moment, my choice to not get my iPhone for a photo and simply be present, like Robin. tender and wonderous.

in gratitude,

anne

ps: Sophie Strand has a new book you can pre-order (from your local indie if you can): “The Body is a Doorway”. you can also subscribe to her Substack, Make Me Good Soil, where she shares her wise insights on navigating the “healthcare” system as a “glitching” body, her gift of storytelling and weaving her deep and broad range of information on the ecology into posts that leave the reader (i think) more aware of the world around them.