The Wild Muse

wildness, wonder, and the spirit of place


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Rabbit

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Sonoran Desert Sunrise – A. Sato

The desert keeps her secrets.

I am back, pre-dawn, scrambling up a hot jumble of granite boulders. Burning my hands, then knees, all to investigate scat, what appears to be a busted lamp someone discarded, a broken mano, a dead ground squirrel.

At 8am, it is already 98 degrees with high humidity, but I come here for the silence and solitude, like they can somehow relieve the heat. At least I will enjoy the quiet. A few minutes pass in this surreal repose until a hiker comes my way. Shit. There is still noise from the road, the distant hum of highways.

The hiker warns me that there is an old guy and some younger women having sex down below the boulders, in the parking lot. We give each other a knowing nod of what’s going on.

This sanctuary, it seems, keeps secrets. The heat drives out most people, but oh…there are the solitude seekers who come in all forms, some to praise the miserable indifference of a July morning among baked rock, and others to find a place to hide their lives from view.

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Watched I – A. Sato

Whatever the situation, I am disturbed, and angry, and ultimately sad. Why here? Why this morning of all mornings? The hiker assured me that he phoned the police and took photos of the guy’s license plate. None of this will change much, but I appreciate his concern.

“Men come and go, cities rise and fall, whole civilizations appear and disappear – the earth remains, slightly modified. The earth remains, and the heartbreaking beauty where there are no hearts to break….I sometimes choose to think, no doubt perversely, that man is a dream, thought an illusion, and only rock is real. Rock and sun.”

I pray his sentiment was right when he also longed for man to be an illusion and rock, and I would add all other forms of life, to be the only thing that is real.

The only thing that lasts.

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Cradled – A. Sato

The desert keeps her secrets. But after the rain it is easier to understand her – hedgehogs burst their tiny strawberry blooms. A gray fox meanders the wash where dragonflies dance above muddy tinajas.

Nothing is subtle after the rain.

I follow the delicate tracks of javelinas while fighting off mosquitoes that make a feast of this convenient, warm-blooded host. Scanning the ground, I find a bit of rabbit fur caught in cholla spines. I imagine some plump coyote, lounging somewhere nearby, smiling his sanguine smile with full belly.

Making my way to a clear patch among the cholla, I wait for the welcomed sort of morning traffic: a troop of chatty Gambel’s quail scatter from beneath an ironwood. A mockingbird sings his patchwork morning song. Behind a small clump of brittlebush, two long ears rise. I wonder if it was his friend who became coyote’s supper. Carefully, the rabbit emerges, sniffing the air.

I have a fondness for rabbits. Their fear is understandable and relatable. Our vulnerability to life is sometimes less palpable, but nonetheless just as real.

Coyote deserves our understanding, too. Feed or be someone’s food…eventually. Too often we want to align with rabbit, all of our fears protecting us from responsibility. Sometimes we want to align with coyote, never allowing gentleness to expose us to the inevitable.

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Flesh – A. Sato

The truth is that both coyote and rabbit embody life, all that life entails, all that is necessary.

The sun burns my neck and distorts my view of the world. Or maybe this is exactly how it should appear. Rabbit makes his way back to his den, belly full from the morning’s good measure of work.

As I reach the parking lot, there is no trace of the man or his Mercedes, or the young woman. The distant traffic continues to hum.


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Canyon Meandering: Pondering the Fool’s Journey

“Not a shred of evidence exists in favor of the idea that life is serious.” Brendan Gill

To be foolish…00-the-fool
we throw our shackles of perceived security off.
We follow the singing of a brook or don masks under oaks in their spring foliage.
We may even chase a butterfly over the precipice.

Life is a grand adventure. Yet many try to shrink it to fit a narrow view.

Holding on, we anchor ourselves to false certainty: the true love, the children, the home, the job, possessions that we pile and monitor with the eye of a dragon.

But the uncertainties, those goblins, have a way of ruining everything.

Stay.
Try again.
Try the same thing again.
This time it will work.

They whisper to us through fear and doubt.

My goblins of uncertainty are habitual responses to loss – or, not letting go of loss. Hanging on by its dead roots, I have stayed near the ground. Not moving, not growing, and certainly not chasing the tempting butterfly that might lead elsewhere.

Where? the goblins demand.
What will it be?

And what if there is pain?

****

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I awake again to a midnight moon – a fool’s half-moon – in Pivot Rock Canyon.

There is perhaps nothing more apropos of the Fool’s wanton adventure than being outdoors – particularly alone, and definitely in a deep woods (the wilder the better).

To expect the unexpected is an unspoken mantra. Whether sleet, hail, or lightning strike or the myriad animal attacks a wanderer is warned of, the journey must always entail a bit of tangled vine and claw-print.

Traces of a late night visit leave imprints of Ursus americanus in my dreams and in the soft earth near the creek.

Instead of Bear, I am startled awake again by the clumsy arrival of revelers – unprepared families arriving late, to camp at 7000 ft, t-shirt and shorts, no idea where they are.

It’s 30 degrees here. Spring comes late to the Mogollon Rim.

The smoke from their fire and the shouts between camps sites keep me awake, wishing it had been Bear instead of Bipeds.

Most early spring nights as these, the woods are empty of other people.
Time to laugh it off, despite my annoyance. Time to wander away from the road. Next time, I will pack in to where no others like to go.

At least, no human others.

Between the cracks of ember and beer cans, I remember the mating call of a mountain lion that echoed down from aptly named Wild Cat Spring, just below a still bustling highway at dusk.

WildCat_trail2 (1 of 1)But now it is only the campfire that hisses.

Be prepared for anything, the Fool laughs. Rather, be unprepared. Be surprised.

The Fool is also the joker who reminds us that anything can happen. The joker’s wild! Remain accustomed to glorious catastrophe. Follow the stars, unshaken by the precipice below our feet.

***

The thing is, the view from home is fixed, the known road is comforting.

But the elsewhere. Elsewhere is a game of chance, and with any game there is a loser – a jester sitting in a pig sty, hat askew, wondering how the hell he got there.

Nonetheless, he dusts himself off and back to the journey he goes.

To the wanderer, home can be hell, and nothing more painful than stasis.

Out there are stories.
Stories that make the storms circle and the birds squawk.

Stories for nights in canyons without sleep.

It is time to pick up the bindle and head off for the tantalizing depths of another adventure.


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Unbound: A Modern Exile

16. aloneswing

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had clearly imagined Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.
― Song of Childhood, Peter Handke

And for the first time, he wished he were far away. Lost in a deep, vast country where nobody knew him. Somewhere without language, or streets.
― Paris, Texas, screenplay by Sam Shepard

On October 1st, I will be forty years old. The imaginings of a linear life have left me disappointed… the hands, the work, the “deal” – none of it mattered to me. I wandered through a variety of lifestyles, always feeling empty and restless. Restlessness seemed to be the precursor to my entire life – nothing can compare to the daydreams of a ten year old. There would be no sultry saviors, no absolution and no erasing the names. There would be a tapestry of longing and a growing compassion for process.

red-lipstick-fearRecently, I made the decision to be truly honest in my decisions. I have written extensively on the subject of work, place and self-awareness. I have a fascination with those whose approach to life smashes barriers. In my twenties, I revolted against femininity and modern capitalism. I squatted in abandoned homes, I jumped tracks and I traveled with an unabashed, caustic personality that drove me to places I never thought I would see. I didn’t participate in the traditional life. I hoofed it with fellow wanderers and freaks. I saw to it that I would never, ever be owned or trapped.

During this time, I explored the trends of body and spirit dualism, eating disorders and body image. I exploited every revolting aspect of the flesh in hopes of making them beautiful. I danced and tripped on mushrooms. I would go without bathing or combing my hair. I pushed for a love of flesh – in its complete glory and eventual decay – because I did not know how to love my own mortal shell. I thought that salvation, or revolution, was found in the intersection of love and physicality. I wanted to be in my skin – lovely and horrible, yet completely body-authentic.

Throughout my thirties, I developed an interest in authenticity as commodity and trend. Authenticity became the battle cry of marketing firms and big brands. The migration from body wisdom to authentic identity of personhood was troubling; mainly because of the way the mainstream embraced the concept. The collective consciousness of Gen X was quickly and quietly overtaken by a new promise of being both successful and authentic. More people, particularly young people, embraced their weird uniqueness and eccentricities, and that was wonderful in many regards. However, this co-opted form of authenticity remained sophomoric and typically American. “I have a right to be me” became the empty shell of egocentric pursuits and isolation. More niche and fringe groups formed based on limited cogent forces – the individual became a composite of type. When a question was posed, the individual could simply fall back on adolescence, “You just don’t understand me!” Me went off the charts. Me denominated the market and continues to do so.

“Remember the quiet wonders. The world has more need of them than it has for warriors.”
― Moonheart, Charles de Lint

What would it be like to lose one’s identity? The movie Paris, Texas (screenplay by Sam Shepard) illustrates the need for an endless terrain and a loss of identity. The main character, Travis Henderson, becomes drawn to “forgetting” and being unknown in an unknown land, simply slipping the realities of tragedy, loss and addiction, TravisimagesCAX2CIXT makes his way home only to choose to return to the land of unknown – the power of movement, following the crack-snap song of power lines that cut through otherwise desolate country.

Tragedy, however, need not be the only impetus for losing oneself to the world. Shamans, prophets and wisdom keepers tread the path of the unknown, the lost one. In shedding former identity, an understanding of place can be attained. One can transcend human boundaries, hearing the songs of crickets and owls and wearing the night like a coat that cannot be slipped. The wanderer becomes small yet great in smallness, silenced yet wise in the vacuum.

Personas can be shifted. Over the past few months, I have considered the random and unsuitable personas I have worn over the years. My general dissatisfaction with a monetary based system has also been a pinnacle factor in my desire to shift from laborer to vagabond. Perhaps persona is a modern development, a modern affliction. Did early man consider his uniqueness? Did he cultivate a collection of property or skills that helped him become alpha, popular and accepted?

There is a connection to the dog-order of humans and other pack animals. Somewhere along the evolutionary process, this aberration of self was developed in order to secure … well, security. With exaggerated limbs and features, bigger-faster-smarter, we rose and challenged. We amended. We edited. We made over and dominated in a pernicious quest for immortality.

Troubling Uniqueness

You may ask yourself, what is that beautiful house?
You may ask yourself, where does that highway lead to?
You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong?
You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?

― Once in a Lifetime, Talking Heads

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The paradox of the fascination with uniqueness is that it is made moot by context. How are we unique if not in the reflection of a communal norm? There would be no uniqueness without a benchmark. We are never separate, individual. There would be no concept of identity if we had no place within a larger social order. That is why the most isolated of tribes or individuals have a rich dreamscape that has not been eradicated by comparison.  In these worlds, plants become as alive as humans. Stones tell stories. Garbage is sacred. It is a mad world that invites weeds to the storyline.

Since the original concepts of loss of identity and regaining of self have nothing to do with pandering to a value based system, we as a culture have little regard for or understanding of those who move beyond what is acceptable. For example, the unique worldview of a person deeply entrenched in paranoid schizophrenia – without being medicated – perhaps represents the purest form of authenticity. The mentally ill and their schematics and dreamlands create fear and order in a tunnel almost devoid of common experience.

There has been much research on the subject of self and mental illness as well as self and shamanism. In this paradigm, there is room for all forms of perception and reality.

To jump off into cholla with dreams of remaining unharmed…

To climb the slick rock and see antelopes dancing in the shadows of light descending…

To know the names of every plant and rock… to call them when you are alone and need life to follow.

My life is changing. Nothing seems fixed as such – and in this shape-shifting, fluid state, I worry less about my life and my purpose. There is a dignity of ignorance I seek. You see, the unchanged world of beliefs and personas is an unforgiving one. In this static state, you are sick or well, pure or rotten. There is a collective desire to find Elysium in the status quo and the illusion of authenticity.

I don’t want to be clear; I want to be knee-deep and murky. I want to wade out when the songs of the sirens bellow across the turquoise. There is beauty in dissolution and chaos. Nature adores the ever-changing and amorphous. There is no regret in simply living without having one solid version of life and the beyond. Perhaps it is not for us to know. Perhaps being an animal among field songs and flight is a very good life, indeed.


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Solitude: Not a Love Story

Over the past year, I have developed a keen interest in literature that speaks to the topic of solitude. Being married to an archaeologist and also being an introvert has given me ample space for quiet contemplation. Summer 2011 was spent exploring much of the northern half of Arizona, often in an attempt to escape the 115 degree summer days Phoenix so nefariously offers. Since my schedule was spent managing various contracts, I found myself with odd patches of mid-week travel time when companions couldn’t join me in my travels. Suffice all of this to say, I was alone often.

If you have read any of the trendy solitude books and themed blogs, you will find that they – for the most part – present solitude in two phases. The first is the comedic realization of solitude ( ie the city to country transition, the odd encounters with new places and people, the wilderness snafus or wildlife bandits, etc.) and the second, and perhaps conclusion to the former, is the phase that I am going to focus on which presently has me stumped, the grand, sweeping, Muir moments of divine connection to self and place. And, to dredge up show tunes, how they present themselves “in the most delightful way”.

I would like to think, in my own bumbling, flawed manner,  I, too, shall one day be singing show tunes and having Muir visit me in epiphanies in cabins on mountaintops. But my foray with solitude has been anything but pretty. Powerful? Yes. Challenging? Yes. But not necessarily peaceful in its starts and stops. And not ideal in process or results.

Each excursion into the forests and canyons has been met with mental la brugas: the mean medicine, fairy tales, nightmares, and – perhaps an adult’s biggest enemy – memories. Never the quiet easement into aloneness, my journeys have felt like  immediate emotional landslides, long tumbles into the crevice of habit and heartbreak where skeletons bang around the edges of experience, demanding, always demanding…

The fact is: solitude includes time with me, myself, the awful “I”. No people are needed. These aspects of self crowd in and gaze, point, cry, scream and sometimes sit silently, waiting for me to get comfortable with some space or sense, then emerge strong, demanding… They are, in fact, the crowds I thought I was escaping by leaving known territory and venturing into solitude.

Where was the beautiful transition into peace?

Where were the epiphanies with Muir and Thoreau singing in my ear, those buddies in isolation and nature?

Rather than finding a voice or having a creative experience, I simply witnessed the beauty around me, moved a lot, and avoided the internal dialogue and chaos as much as possible. The more chaotic, the more demanding the internal became, in fact, the more determined I was to drown it out. “I am here to be HERE, dammit! Go away!” But the internal crowding continued, despite intense hiking, a six-pack, or thunderstorm, the demands kept coming until I was so exhausted from my own company, I had to get away from myself.

To the city. Ah, the city… where so many distractions simply overwhelmed that damn internal group of hangers-on. To the city, where I pretended my solitude experiences were meaningful in some way. Until now.

What occurs to me most about solitude and experiencing solitude is that there is a vast difference between selective solitude – often taken in timely chunks – and imposed or accidental solitude, often not intentional or purposeful but more sustained and sincere. Creating solitude is theatre. Imposed solitude is truly where the proverbial rubber meets the road. In its extreme form, we might imagine jail time or a POW camp. Thankfully, I have not experienced either of those forms of solitude where solitude is but one of many concerns. Solitude might include months of work abroad, or moving to a new place without a companion. This was how my less-than-intentional isolation came into being.

Recently I relocated to a small town in the far southwest corner of Colorado, near Mesa Verde (a beautiful area of canyons, high desert, green pastures and mountains). I was offered a stellar job with a wonderful small business. I accepted. I knew, given the fact that both my husband John and I have careers and a home in Phoenix, there would be an extended period of separation until he found a job and a tenant or buyer (whichever came first, and neither particularly easy). I arrived in Colorado as a baby bird out of the nest, meeting the ground with a hard thud… a little gnarly and featherless, but ready to move on. Somehow I held hope that – magic thinking, mind you – John would arrive soon after. Both John and I have been wanting out of Phoenix for a while now, so the move was what we envisioned for the future, but certainly not seemless in its execution.

As a wanderer, I have had experiences with solo travel and even moving to new lands. However, I don’t think I had emotionally prepared for being a stranger in a strange land again, and no longer in my fearless twenties.  I have one of those personalities that make me shy with those I should feel most comfortable, and comfortable with total strangers, ramblers like me. It didn’t take me long to make conversation with the eccentric locals, but at day’s end I was quick to crawl back into my den and ponder the fact that my husband would be away for weeks and no friends were near enough to fill my time. Every little household problem became monstrous (funny, how one gets used to having another to share household trouble-shooting with) and the nights loomed long and quiet.

So here I sat in a new house. In a new town. With no identity other than the one I claim and believe exists.

Enter in the host of goblins, the mischief makers of memory and habit… My idea of solitude always included the space and creative energy for writing, painting… you know, all of the things we try to make room for but cannot because we work like crazy Americans. So when I am gifted temporary solitude (not of my choosing entirely), what happens? I clean. I worry. I make lists of tedious tedium only the most compulsive among us would appreciate, let alone enjoy. Out come the jerks of my own creation: anxiety, what if scenarios, paranoid ideas about the things that could happen. An awful word: could.

Yes, I longed for those romantic evening writing fests, the wind softly blowing and the moon glowing through the cracked curtains, or philosophizing at a clear lake with a journal and the sound of owls in the distance. Yes, I longed for creativity to sieve itself out of my heart, brain or soul, depending on one’s definition, and work its magic.

But what I got was paralyzing self-examination and litanies of fear statements. When my brain got tired of these, I was left with an exhaustion so enormous I could have slept for days. Sometimes I did. And, then, the remarkable part: something transpired that makes me feel OK… safe, even. And then, a little more… until – yes, yes – there it is! I am a bit happy. I find my feet. I find others. I leave solitude behind in its eternal cancer ward. I return to the previous state of movement and occupied mental state – the interruptions, the calls, the family responsibilities – but a little more appreciative, self-aware, and … determined to forgo the need to push out the world to know what lies within.

I have always known I have tremendous strength. I have felt and used my tenacity many times in horrible places, where isolation was no option of my choosing. I don’t need Muir to point out the strength of spirit that is possible. What I did lack, however, was the awareness that happiness cannot be found chasing solitary confinement in some literary fantasy of such. No. Happiness is a product of familiarity, something I never would have wanted to believe, but continue to find its truth. Solitude is simply a byproduct of being alive. We endure it, we may even harness its energy at times, but to be happy is to leave the goblins of what ifs of our own internal drama and to remove our gaze from navel – to gaze deeply into the world.


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Interconnected forms of solitude

I have been doing a lot of thinking about solitude. What is it about being alone that is so frightening? I had hoped to write a thoughtful post on the topic today, a reflection on the nature of solitude: others’ and my own…. But I am still stuck in the emotion – the visceral kick and groan of the emotion.

Things happened today while considering aloneness. First, I found a dead bird under my office window with no visible signs of trauma. The phone kept ringing all morning, but only static was on the other line when I’d answer. I was also very, very sleepy and it seemed like everything – stroking the cat, editing poems, cooking, yoga, working, driving, watering the plants – had a lull-whisper, a soporific effect. I walked through the day like Dreamtime – whip-tailed lizards of ideas slipped in, then disappeared behind shadows before I could discern their message.

What I gather from this is perhaps I need to be with solitude a little while longer before I dare to decipher its meaning. I am a novice in its presence, a new baby to the distance. I need to observe more. I need some time to know the stranger that resides here.