Here’s the thing about a wild woman.
Everyone wants to know how to hold one. But tell me, how do you hold the wind?
How do you hold fire, water, and spirit?
We belong to the earth, and we have always been the moon’s sacred consort. Women like us, mostly animals in human form—fang and fur and sharpened teeth—we slip through your fingers like the sea.
You may try for an evening, but come morning, you can be sure we have found the cracks, seeped out, and returned to the source.
We do not come when you call us, and we shake the heavens when we roar.
We love hard for a season, and then we are gone, scattering seeds as we go.
I turn briefly to look at a year’s journey around the sun, and everything is carpeted in flowers. I do not pick them, dry them, or press them in a book to collect dust. Love returns back to the earth, composted. This is my most heartfelt offering—what I leave behind.
How then shall you love a wild woman?
When she comes at twilight in shagged form, with blackened feet and smelling like the river, let her see your empty outstretched hands. Let her look long and hard for the trap you didn’t set.
She will do this over and over again.
She wants a lover who is true and patient.
Let her leave again.
Go out into the field, and watch her dance across the sky like the moon—waxing and waning.
Love her through all her seasons—when she is brittle and splintering like straw, and when she is strong like oak.
Pay attention when she says nothing and looks hard into the horizon. She is testing you—she wants to know if you can hear the world singing.
Listen when she tells you the stories of the pelican—how it longs to be touched, and how to catch the babies when they come out into the world.
Remember where she came from and understand she will always be returning there.
When you turn your face to kiss the wind as it passes, this is how you shall love her.
You love her because she is free.