Part II

[This was initiated by a prompt from the website of Laura Davis, writing coach. Please do read Part I first.]

The wilderness inside me thrives in kinship with the natural world. I do have a wild girl in me. She sat under a bush at nine years old while at Camp Fire Girls camp in the Sierras and looked up into the spring green leaves backlit by the sun, and relished that for the first time, no one in the world knew exactly where she was. The freedom and exhilaration in that moment were life defining for me. I was a camper until I couldn’t do it anymore, about ten years ago. I was also the one who lived with little restriction in her twenties, who forged ahead, who slept in, who partied, who loved with too much abandon, who went to the beach on a whim. Who hiked up into the wooded hills (with a walking stick made by a friend from a maple sapling), even with a mostly paralyzed leg. I deeply miss being able to do that. Now I use a scooter for “walks” and need a paved pathway. I still love getting out in the fresh air, and I appreciate that this mobility accommodation is available. My husband and I relish those outings together, limited as they may be.

There is a part of me that wants, that wanted, to do what Cheryl Strayed did, walk the Pacific Coast Trail, or a similar path. Get out there where I’m far away, in nature, without constant communication. And my fantasy of that world is that it would match the vastness I feel in me. The sense of awe: the natural world, intelligence, music, the seemingly miraculous continuity of this planet and humanity (which we humans seem determined to shut down, as evidenced by the way we treat the earth, and too often its inhabitants as well).

And the remains of all this? There is a longing in me. There is something unfulfilled. That kind of wilderness, the untouched and unspoiled but also… an unfulfilled potential that pokes at me sometimes; on a good day, it calls. It says, “Forget the tasks. Read a good book. Schedule doing something that feeds yourself.” (Yes, in my current life, diversion has to be scheduled. Sigh.) The feeling might be seen as wanting fame or acknowledgement, but it has more to do with wishing I’d contributed something more to this world. To have made a bigger difference.

I’m not saying I haven’t had a worthwhile life; it’s been quite wonderful and continues to be. I expect I have another fifteen or twenty years; they will just be increasingly limited physically.

This is part of why I write. To reach out from my personal wilderness—which should not be confused with loneliness, which is not at all what it is; it is solitude, and it is peaceful… except for the longing to create. Yes, I’ve written three books that have been published; I ran a small business for over thirty years, I contributed to my clients… all that has happened. And it still feels like there’s more in me that has not manifested. I thought if I got my books out to several thousand people that would complete the “thing.” But there have been only a few thousand, so I compare myself to those who’ve authored books that I think are of equal quality to mine and have found their way to several thousand readers. Somehow, it’s difficult to just sit with what has transpired, and not wish it were “more.”

Another set of verses comes to mind: Bonnie Raitt’s “Longing in Our Hearts.”

What about that space inside that does not have purpose? That just exists? That states, “just being is valid, is enough, is unnecessary to defend, and has no expectations placed upon it”? Just having awareness and appreciation of life and its richness, its diversity, its mysteries? Is that not also a glorious wilderness?

This is an open-ended search and reflection. I’m sure it’s a lot to do with aging and assessing. Meanwhile, I’ve got a lot of stuff to clear out of my study and my home, partly in case I expire unexpectedly, and partly to create a blank canvas for my life. Yes, even at this late stage. Who knows what wildcat will walk into the forest of my being and invite me to jump to a new branch?

What is your wilderness?