Bewilderment
Core to those who awe is
the act, the duty, to
gape and pass the gaping.
One must be
wilding. Be
wilder. Be
wilder, meant
for communion in
the tesselating grasp of shadows, tracing the trunk of the tree deep into the layers of loam; into the fathoms of arms that surround, abound,
adorn — I swore I could hold the sun, palm
it in my hand, the moon in tow and
clash them together, conjure
a storm. One that screams
creation and humming;
wreckage and birthing, at
last shout the name we’ve been waiting
for, only after and alone comes the pollinator, bumbling
belligerently, dusting and becoming,
yellowing in the sparks of my crashing.
All the while, there you were.
Nervous and afraid of what flew
orbits of your skull despite the
buzzing, bursting, loving
trapped within your rib cage.
The delightful poet Ross Gay wrote a book-length poem called “Be Holding” which was recently turned into a play in Philadelphia. I love the way he, and others, parse language to have multiple meanings and the prefix “be” lends itself rather well.
Yesterday, I was fortunate to have a great conversation with Dr. Jason Cummins and Dr. Shane Doyle, indigenous education leaders and members of the Crow Tribe. Shane shared that he was thinking about the word wilderness and questioning the ways in which indigenous peoples do/don’t fit into that frame.
After, I happened to be listening to a conversation about what’s next in clean energy and the guest made the claim that “there is no wilderness left”.
I’ve been noticing the flocks of bumblebees that gravitate toward the blooming artichokes and lavender in our neighborhood. Stunning! For a moment, among the purple, it almost feels like you’re in an underwater world.
Thanks for reading.