wild are Fires, wild are Crones
little sense to make of these fragments. post anyway, said a Wolf Moon,
dear sojourner,
dark Earth lacked sleep at dawn, stirred by howling Wolf Moon…first full Moon of the year. Fog crept out of soil rising with Sun. Earth seeking a blanket, seeking sleep lost from her wild night of light. Wolf Moon urging me to finish this post, first words rising on the page six days ago. “allow fragments. frayed threads. even in my fullness i am never complete,” her howling advice. here then, fragmented thoughts:
wilding Fires consuming parched land, named los angeles for news consumption, dominate social media. tongue dry land—Fire lapping it up, not yet sated. it has been months since Water has sated southern california landscapes. Rain evaporating from Sky before a thought is formed. few hints of language between Sky and Earth since early summer…those autumn|winter Rains never arriving for that catch-up conversation. like long ago lovers, over the years the conversations have become briefer—until this. structures|landscapes|dwellings burn. up north my feet squelch in Mud after days of heavy Rain. even before distant wildFires started i didn’t complain. Mud composes a song beneath my feet.
i have lived through wildFire seasons. Sun becoming a mystery-sky-orb. lungs becoming tainted with Tree screams. night becoming dream fallow. so yes, i welcome drenched paths and swollen Creeks. and when Clouds abandon Skies and roar wilding blue for two, three days, if we are fortunate a week (a break we are in the midst of now,) winter Sun skirting Tree tops and glaring in my eyes, i soak that in too. i look toward Mountains, now wrapped in white layers. each inch accumulated—needed Snow pack for summer’s heat. heat that will return. evaporating what will linger of my winter spirit.
i am curious how we use language to describe Fire|Wind|Water|Earth events with human characteristics. the words we use that match our own descriptors of how we move through life: raging, devouring, sated, engulfed, whipped. at times it seems we want to blame the element itself for the destruction as if it were personal. as you listen to social media portray climate events, what words do you hear and how do they stir your emotions? how do you feel connected? i’m not judging this. actually as i write, i am aware of my own usage. simply noticing.
this is a fragmented post. it sputters. it mutters back to me “insignificant in the face of a crumbling world.” trying to write about what it means to be “wild” as a crone. as an aging woman. i have thoughts. many of them actually. and i’ve been asked to share by a few folks. so i start, then i stumble. anything i offer is from a cisgendered white woman seeped in western modernity. one who questionsquestionsquestions almost everything these days. and the threads dangling in my thoughts seem unweavable…engagement with Sharon Blackies’ mythology and fairy tale studies on Wise Women. with The Emergent Network and Báyò Akómoláfé. reading about Fungi (The Entangled Life, How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures by Merlin Sheldrake.) reading ever so slowly Erin Manning’s book on The Minor Gesture. learning just a tiny bit about a Neutrino and being amazed (after all, i’m old enough that when i was a kid, i was taught the smallest particle was an atom-ha!).
and then this recent iteration of wildFires erupts and though a distance away from where i live (though always on the mind of those of us living on the west coast of the usa,) the suffering feels near. can you sense it too? this on top of gaza, sudan, ukraine, andandand… this on top of other ways the “natural” world (are we not the natural world?) is impacting our human sense of safety and boundaries? no wonder we look for so many ways to distract ourselves (i saw the movies Wicked and A Complete Unknown…i appreciate distraction.)
so a few rambling thoughts on being “wild” post-menopausal based on my experience, gender, culture, readings, biases (some undoubtedly unrecognized). my invitation to you is to take what might be useful to play with, reflect on, be annoyed with, or disregard altogether, thinking “she’s a cranky hag.”
i did some uncomfortable exploration of my own wildness recently. what might it look like to be “more wild?” wrapping that around a younger person model. or an extroverted model. it didn’t take long that being wild for me (and perhaps for Croning females?) is an inner state of being. for me it is reflected in my writing, my presence in relationships, my approach to engaging in Nature, etc. in these areas i am quite “wild” (back to that wild introvert which prods me on to deeper and more out of the box pondering.) what is reflected to the outer world starts internally. what i choose to read, watch, listen to. activities i engage in. time spent in stillness. looking toward other Beings on the Land where i dwell for connection.
i’m discovering being “wild” means exploring boundaries of words and meanings. what has been imposed on them by the culture i am immersed in. what am i assuming? what am i noticing? my engagement with The Emergent Network and Báyò Akómoláfé has stretched me in ways i couldn’t have imagined a few years ago.
words like “relationship,” “justice,” “freedom,” “gender,” “community” are jacketed by the dominate culture’s prescriptions. even words i have a deep association with: Grief, Loss, Joy. words that have sustained me as archetypal mentors need to be refreshed (though even as i type this i haven’t cracked open that lid.)
“wild” may be hiking along a windy ridge line, skinny-dipping in a ice-melting mountain stream, traveling solo…but it is also breaking thought patterns and asking questions, not so much for answers, but to internally shake things up. watch the shapeshifters…those Crows that adorn the Land where i live. what might they teach me?
as a avid follower of Sharon Blackie (subscribe to her on Substack to receive her monthly newsletter,) i recently finished her newest book, Wise Women, Myths and Stories for Midlife and Beyond which offers role models for aging women in a “dazzling array of not-to-be-messed-with older characters.” this complements last year’s read of her book Hagitude, Reimagining the Second Half of Life. i began my journey with Sharon several years ago with her book “If Women Rose Rooted.” her work has deeply informed how i have shifted my being with the Land.
in her research on Old Women in mythology and fairy tales, we see them not as the protagonists, but has the ones sought out for wisdom. they may be kind, or not. they are not glamorous. they don’t give a Rats’ ass what you think of them. you can tutelage under their care, if you are invited. or be offered shelter and the knowledge you need to journey on. they live on the edges, not in the center of village life. you need to seek them out. there are those i seek out. as i age, i find some younger folks even seek me out!
Note: most of Sharon’s stories are focused on Northern Europe, Ireland, and the UK (this is her area of expertise and she is always careful to “stay in her lane”.) many resonate with my life because that is my ancestry. they may or may not resonate with you. and i am curious about myths and fairy tales from other cultures and finding wisdom to glean from them, so an open-hearted approach is my way.
what myths and stories about older women have you sought out? what elements are you looking for? (if you are of another gender, shift these questions in a way that resonates for you.) i am drawn to the ones that are welcoming and yet go about their business no matter what the current “trend” is. i am observing that as corporations have discovered the marketing (i.e. money) potential in selling “beauty” products (to look younger and/or pleasing) to this aging demographic, my own desire to rebel grows. the execs at Beauty Inc are not interested in older women claiming their edgy wildness. letting warts show…literally and figuratively. nope, it is about the bottom line. it is something to ponder when some ad is advocating for “your" well-being.
being “wild” also means being tender…with myself and with the Beings and Land i engage with. it is about allowing a slow unfolding. this is winter…my slow time. i need more rest. (also likely another reason this post has taken so long to write.) part of being a “wild crone” means saying “no” to tasks and “yes” to stillness. i also understand i am in a place i can do this by choice. i want to honor that not everyone has this choice for many reasons dictated beyond their control.
“wild” for me is exploring what makes my heart expand with curiosity (even as my mind is befuddled…even as on some level i believe it is all connected…even as those Neutrinos continue darting through my body|the Universe.)
let me know what “wild” looks like to you?
as i mentioned above, i’ve started, the Slow Study course, We Will Dance With Mountains: Vunja! through For The Wild. this alongside reading The Minor Gesture by Erin Manning (read the below quote and you’ll see how the Neutrino interests me! hint-it has to do with passing almost unpreceived) has my brain feeling like someone put information in a blender and hit “puree.” it is nourishing…and a lot. as Báyò says, “this is not about accumulating ‘knowledge’ to ‘understand and fix.’” (breathing a sigh of relief here.) we are in a shifting world. i’m learning about “fugitive” ways of thinking. and, how art is vital. again, lots of threads yet to be woven into anything looking like a tapestry. what makes your heartmind curious? how do you expand your ways of understanding?
The minor gesture, although it may pass almost unperceived, transforms the field of relations. More than a chance variation, less than a volition, it requires rethinking common assumptions about human agency and political action. To embrace the minor gesture's power to fashion relations, its capacity to open new modes of experience and manners of expression, is to challenge the ways in which the neurotypical image of the human devalues alternative ways of being moved by and moving through the world in particular what Manning terms "autistic perception."
from The Minor Gesture by Erin Manning
there is more floating around in my own being…like inner meteor showers that pop in. i watched this short film, Aralkum, on the Aral Desert (previously known as the Aral Sea but was dried up by 2010) that left me sad…and wondering what “body” of Water will go from “lake xyz” to “desert xyz” next. the great salt lake???
since my last following dandelion seeds post i wandered back to my other blog at Nurture Your Journey (a quarterly newsletter) where i wrote about a longest night event i engaged in planning and facilitating, and shared about the theme from that evening: “what we carry; what carries us.” if that interested you, please pop over and take a look.
thank you for reading this fractured post this far. likely full of typos and other oops. letting it go. if you keep going, there’s a poem at the end. know i appreciate you.
where i live in winter, bird song is muted, close to absent. besides Crows, House Finches, Black-Capped Chickadees, Robins, various Raptors and Owls, Song Sparrows stay year round. theirs’ is the one song that cuts through Fog, Rain, traffic noise. i assume these melodies are not for mating this time of year. perhaps it is chatter between neighbors, reaching out in the dim light of winter gray. or for pleasure to brighten days of scrounging for less abundant food. i know the purpose is based on Song Sparrow needs, not human, but i can’t help but smile when i hear them sing. i’m grateful for the gracious melody. the lilt. the gift. a wild crone appreciates the songs of Kin.
in gratitude,
anne
ps: my poem dry was featured on the Tiny Seed Literary Journal website. their current theme is “water,” please go to their site and sign up to receive poems in your email. the daily gift of poetry!
Here’s my poem:
dry
before the rain returns i
want to remember skin
peeling on my lips,
hands rubbing rough
against my arms on
cooling nights. i
want to remember
leaves veined brown
like rivers naked with
stale silt; spinning on
rusted clotheslines rustling
like taffeta skirts. i
want to remember the
season where there was
an abundance of
lacking. where the
wounds had no energy to
to scar. remember before storm
grates become masked in amber,
scarlet, sienna, creating pools knee
deep that tidal with
each passing car, threatening
to pull me under. i want
to remember grass pinpricking
against my sweat drenched body
as i gaze at morning
stars, salt beads sliding to
earth, a feeble offering of dew.
i want to remember
before i forget and grow
weary of oil slick streets,
clouds outpouring rivers’
fluted songs, when
abundance shifts to
another lack.
© anne richardson