Tag Archives: rewild

We are all born wild

Day 162

photo by Michelle Johnsen

photo by Michelle Johnsen

In some small, hidden part of yourself

you can remember.

What it felt like to play.

To run with excitement, feet dancing over the ground, arms and heart

pumping.

You can recall how it felt to pretend.

How you crawled like bears and tigers,

clambering over rough ground,

playing chase with

friends.

You can still feel

your small body

falling exhausted and strong into bed

without worries,

sweet dreams ready to dance in your head.

And then it happened. The world pressed too hard on one so young, so malleable.

And your smile got smaller and smaller, and your laughter got quieter and less frequent,

until it hardly came at all anymore.

And you were assimilated.

A little, wild soul swallowed up

by an ordered and controlled culture.

A rock carrier, working hard,

a cog in a great wheel turning and turning.

And I’m sorry that happened to you. To us. It’s not fair.

No one asked us. No one wondered if that’s what we wanted for our simple and beautiful lives.

I want more. I want all of us to want more.

We shouldn’t feel old and worried and sad and pathetic.

No matter our age.

We should be vibrant, and happy, and powerful, and courageous.

We should wear our pride like badges in our smiles and growl like tigers when confronted.

We should smell like wood smoke and honeysuckle,

and walk barefoot over soft moss and tough rocks,

wear smudges of soil on our sun kissed cheeks and dip

regularly into sweet streams, spring fed and deep.

We are all born wild,

rooting for breast milk like small furry animals,

led by our only instinct,

the need for love.

Run wild and throw off your shackles.

Listen only to the blood singing in your veins.

Plunge your hands wrist deep into soft soil

and breathe in the scent of life.

Open your mouth to the sky and drink nothing but rain.

You are a member of this planet.

A child of the earth.

You

are

an

animal.

Remember.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

photo by Wilson Alvarez

photo by Wilson Alvarez

Go feral, heed the call

Day 90

do·mes·ti·cated
dəˈmestiˌkātəd/
adjective
  1. 1.
    (of an animal) tame and kept as a pet or on a farm.
    “domesticated dogs”
fe·ral
ˈfi(ə)rəl,ˈferəl/
adjective
  1. 1.
    (esp. of an animal) in a wild state, esp. after escape from captivity or domestication.
    “a feral cat”
    Photo by Michelle Johnsen

    Photo by Michelle Johnsen

    I am no pet.
    No one’s lap dog,
    begging at the feet of her master for food, water, love.
    There is no collar around my neck, no leash to hold me back.
    I am not tame, mild mannered, subdued.
    I am snarling, salivating muscle, coiled like a spring.
    Ready to
    snap.
    My water runs free down the mountains,
    my food is rare, ruby blood organs steaming in the open air.
    My love comes wild, under a bright white moon.
    Howling, ravaged, riled.
    I am no farmer’s horse,
    back swayed under the weight of rider,
    heavy, oppressive, broken.
    Running circles around rings,
    eyes locked, head down.
    I am unbridled energy,
    heaving flanks and stamping feet.
    My hooves fly,
    over water, over stone,
    over earth.
    Body free,
    unsullied,
    by saddle, harness,
    whips.
    I am no house cat,
    belly full,
    catnip stupor.
    Gazing longingly through windows,
    soft paws clutching air.
    My claws are razor sharped talons tipped with barbs,
    I am lean, stealthy,
    dangerous.
    My meals are served
    on soil plates,
    feathers, fur, bones, and blood,
    Fear on four legs,
    Free.
    I am no sheep,
    following flock,
    shepherd tended,
    stupid, afraid.
    I am Bighorn,
    Nimble, fast on mountaintop,
     shepherded by wind and rain,
    green grass,
     open sky.
    Courageous, bold, and brave.
    photo by Wilson Alvarez

    photo by Wilson Alvarez

    I am no cog in this monster machine,
    there is no noose around my neck, no stockings on my thighs.
    I am not swayed by their shiny things,
    I do not do as I am told.
    My life does not tick by
    one
    minute
    at
    a
    time,
     tired, listless,
    bored and
    Dead.
    My body is free,
    to move, to dance, to walk to sing.
    My neck wears the mark of a thousand sun kissed summers,
    chocolate freckles,
    golden tan.
    My thighs are strong and sultry, smooth skin against smooth skin.
    they are things of beauty,
    let me jump, and run, and swim.
    This life is roaring waterfalls and burning volcanoes,
    Insect song on summer nights,
    sharp crisp cold of freshly fallen
    snow,
    loud, quiet,
    lush,
    serene.
    photo by Wilson Alvarez

    photo by Wilson Alvarez

    I am wailing war cry,
    and hushed whisper,
    looking out,
    and turning in.
    Living,
    Locked in passion,
    with this wild,
    wide, and wonderful world.
    Go feral,
    undomesticate,
    rewild.
    Heed the call.
    Thank you for listening,
    Love,
    Natasha
    photo by Yank

    photo by Yank

    Thank you Sarah H. for your intoxicating words in our guest post  tonight. Delicious, earthy. real. May we be consumed by our passions. I love you.

    The following is by Sarah H.

    you are my lover:

    we play

    “Earth’s crammed with heaven… But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.”

    Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh

    “The supreme guru played with time and space, as a child plays with bubbles.”

    Paramahansa Yogananda, Autobiography of a Yogi

    “And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.”

    Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

    “If I were rain; that joins sky and earth, that otherwise never touch, could I join two hearts as well?”

    ― Tite Kubo, Bleach, Vol. 01: The Death and The Strawberry

    the moon was full

    and there were storms-

    that passed us in our sleep…

    some awoke

    buckets!

    water roaring into rotted eaves.

    a kiss to see the blanket leaves;

    the last jeweling,

    blossomed,

    hard-warm, red trees

    before the skeleton months…

    exposed arborous limbs-

    scratch feelings into things…

    and from the elements, all one and unattached;

    chipped finger nails,

    tight neck and back

    half cold-

    half hot- holds

    the memories

    that spark and jolt

    our strands and bands

    of dna

    the world

    so very

    in

    us…

    while every lover i’ve ever loved

    feeds me an alluring

    bursting bud;

    fichus sprawling

    sound of foot chewing cud

    crisping

    bio exo

    textures

    fall movement…

    spliced analog reels

    fast forward and rewound to-

    the steep slope we sporadically scaled.

    hopping out!

    to keep our horny hands concealed-

    up

    and out of breath…

    to the top, far from town-

    4-ways blinking

    bliss back down…

    smoky now november

    saturation clouds-

    two shrieking shadows

    iconic undiscovered owls

    on the rims and panels fold

    listening to the radio’s slow molecule tone

    each other’s radio…

    to “noise against fascism”

    ‘roll-our-eyes’ bands

    flash

    back

    laughter

    sickeningly sweet sex

    all over the seats

    the stars

    the lakes

    the roads

    the roads

    the roads

    `borderless eyes…

    healing walks before all the new neighborhoods blocked the sky.

    two-twined in one sleeping bag…

    smelling you for the first time.

    transportational,

    magnetic,

    imagination talk-

    funneling, low lit days…

    jet streams some amnesia-sweatered

    weather;

    long experimental lies in bed…

    dyes of the eternal-

    fix us-

    break us-

    beings…

Turn off the lights

Day 32

So the first blackout event is coming up this Sunday, and I want to talk a little more about it.

See, I picture us starting with this one small action. An hour without electricity and modern devices.

An hour reserved for diconnecting from phones, computers, cars, lights, ovens, TV’s, radios etc., etc.

An hour devoted to reconnecting to ourselves, each other, and the natural world.

And I figure that it’s two-fold, right?

On one hand we starve the beast. We shut off the electricity ON PURPOSE, just because we can, because we want to. And on the other hand, we get rid of the distractions, finally allow ourselves some time to sit and BREATHE.

We’re not going to sit in darkness, and candlelight, and firelight, and think and be quiet, and tell stories with our friends, and sing, and play guitar, because there’s a power outage, and we need to pass the time until the lights come back on.

No. We’re going to write poems, and laugh with our children, and look at the stars, and listen to the night sounds,and cry, and think our thoughts, and feel our feelings,

because

We NEED to see that we do not NEED what the corporations have to offer us.

We need to see that we  do not need their phones, and computers, and microwaves, and video games, and TV’s, and lights, and

ELECTRICITY.

And YES, we are starting slow, with a  small group of people, and our blackout is only an hour long, and afterwards we’ll turn the lights back on and go about our business.

But what if the next blackout event is TWO hours? Two glorious hours of wandering in the woods, eating dinner over the fire with friends, sitting silently, napping, or reading? And HUNDREDS of people participate?

And then, just think, if the blackout after that was three hours? Three hours of no phones, no TV’s, no video games, no computers, no stoves, no dishwashers.

Three amazing hours of gardening, of mushroom hunting, of talking, of singing, of dancing, of loving. And what if THOUSANDS of people participated?

And all the while we’re learning, studying furiously, sharing information, teaching classes. About subjects large and small.

How to cook over an open fire, how to make a rocket stove, how to insulate and heat our homes without fossil fuels, sewing, knitting, yurt building, skinning, how to make wood gas, how to make solar panels, tanning leather, wild plant identification, which plants to use as medicine, how to make a bow and arrow, how to purify water, how to make paper, how to write, how to read, how to play the guitar, the bass, the flute, how to drum, how to make a drum, how to use cloth diapers, how to garden, how to grow potatoes, how to grow chickens and on, and on.

So that one day, at some point in the distance, we can plan a blackout that is not just one hour,

But one DAY.

One whole day without electricity, without TV, without phones, computers, lights.

One whole day listening to the birds and the crickets and your loved one’s voice. One whole day of cooking, eating, and playing outside. One whole day of rising with the sun, and sleeping with the moon.

Or what about a blackout that was One whole month?

Or One year?

And what if MILLIONS of people participated?

What if one day, we look at each other, gathered around a campfire, sharing food and drink, with the little ones running around, and the owls hooting nearby, and say, “I don’t think we NEED that stuff anymore, those phones, those computers, those lights. We’ve got everything we need right here.”

Well, I think that would send our message loud and clear. To the electricity companies, to the corporations, to the governments, to the world.

WE DON’T NEED YOU.

I think that’s how you starve a beast like the culture of destruction.

It’s a powerful statement to say that we know how to survive in an emergency.

But it’s an even more powerful statement to say that we’re walking away.

On purpose.

Because we can.

Turn off the lights.

Join the blackout.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha

******October 27th, 7-8 pm, location: everywhere**************

 A 1 hour blackout, in mourning, in solidarity, in rebellion”

cropped-images1.jpg

On Sunday October 27th, from 7-8pm, we invite you to shut off all of the lights in your house, and around your property.

Turn off and unplug your TV’s, your computers, your phones, your major appliances, and anything else with a cord and a power button. Refrain from using anything that requires electricity.

During this hour go outside if you can. Or stay inside.  Sit around a fire if you can, or around a candle, or in complete darkness.  Gather with loved ones and friends if you can, or just be alone.

Sing, tell stories, laugh, cry. Mourn for your personal losses and our collective ones. Wear black if you want; or don’t. Talk about who and what you stand in solidarity with and why. Pray. Praise. Sit in silence, or scream at the top of your lungs. Dance, hug one another. Lay on the ground and look at the stars. Play games with your children, listen to their stories.Wail.

Do what feels right, follow your instincts.

Let the emotions wash over you. Do not be afraid of them.

We need to know who we are with the lights off.

We need to know what we do without distractions.

We need to see what happens when we join together.

Invite your friends,

Share, and Share, and Share again.