The Wild Woman comes through my consciousness like a river, carrying these words:
There are places we’ve been
and do not exactly remember.
There are things we’ve felt
that have sifted way way down.
There are ways to be true
we needn’t be taught.
We can recover these essential morsels of our humanity
wherever there is space to do nothing,
whenever we dare to lay down our certainty,
and leap through the portal of play!
~~~
On the day I turned thirty, I found myself wandering in the woods with dear friends. At one point during that long Springtime hike, I sat down beside a Soul brother on the bank of a small creek. The sound of the water traveling through the curves in the Earth softened me. Along the banks of stream, a lush, moist, deep green blanket of moss grew. A particular patch growing across the water caught my eye. As I looked into that deep green, a memory came through like a flash, one I hadn’t thought of in years and years, and I was transported.
I was about five years old, living in a small neighborhood on a military base in Meridian, Mississippi. Both of my parents were Marines in those days and all the neighborhood kids were military brats. In the memory, I was with two of my little girl friends, Janis & Bethany, in the woods behind Janice’s house. The curve of the land was such that, just behind the back porch of Janice’s house, the land sloped down quite a ways into the woods.
I cannot recall what exactly what was going on back there or what we were doing in those woods, on that day, except for the vague idea that we were playing, and a memory of the delicious smell of mud.
What I can recall is the moment we were found.
I remember looking up to see what seemed like the whole neighborhood looking down at us. Janice, Bethany & I stood there, naked as the day we were born, bodies painted, looking up at the gaggle of adults and kids. At the very center of the pack, my Mother.
Now, like I said, I cannot tell you exactly what we had been doing, but I can tell you the precise expression of horror on my mother’s face as she looked down at us.
Like an old home movie in my mind, the memory then cuts to being in the bath tub as my mother scrubbed the paint off my body, shaking her head, and mumbling. Eyes down, I watched the water carry the paint away, circling the drain, and then gone forever. My little heart sunk. A feeling of total shame washed over me.
Now, on the day of my thirtieth birthday, in the presence of the moss, sitting next to my Soul brother, the shame in the memory didn’t take over me like it had each and every time I had remembered it for so many years after that hot day in Mississippi. This time that old dark feeling wasn’t the essence of the story.
Instead, the memory had a new center which took the shape of a question:
What were we doing in those woods?!
A feeling of delighted curiosity came through, and then, a revelation:
I turned to my Soul brother and said, “I think I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to remember what we little girls were doing in those woods, naked, bodies painted!”
Knowing me and this Wild Woman work, he smiled a broad knowing smile, and nodded his head. Just a few months later I welcomed about 50 women to the 1st annual
Wild Woman Fest. That was 2014.
Year after year, experience after experience, with the help of my sisters and the natural world, I remember a little more. That shame fades away like an old scar, as nakedness, literally & figuratively, becomes a way of life. The sense that our bodies are Sacred and the Sacred are our bodies seems so clear. I’ve made a particularly good internal trade: seriousness & certainty, for a simple commitment to play and dance my way through this life.
So thanks to the moss growing on that edges of that stream – a portal to remembering something so precious, something I could have very well forgotten.
Beautiful story!
Thanks, Rita!
I love this story I have always had a special relationship to moss. My father was earthy and spiritual and I remember from a very young age asking him about moss. My father taught me how to talk to moss and other things in nature and how to listen.
Wow! How special to share that special moss connection with your father & to be taught to communicate with it too!
Thanks for sharing, Erin xo
Beautiful, thanks for sharing Chris, this is very inspiring. We’re taught to be ashamed of one natural thing after another when we’re children, If we’re lucky, we’re able to unpack those moments and find our way to the true feelings beneath them, the ones preceding the shame, as adults. I’m glad you had your realization to your truth <3
Exactly, Marina. Very well put. And thank you for taking the time to reflect here. ♥️ Much love xo
All of my earliest memories are in nature! Walking by the pond down the road and thinking about where the snakes lived, seeing a fox from my bedroom window, watching my dad gently spray a skunk with the hose to chase it out of the front yard. Being spooked by a swan that was WAY TALLER THAN ME, and playing manhunt in the woods, painted by berries. Those berries, it turned out, were nightshade, and made our skin itch, but my sister and I were so excited by the idea of camouflaging ourselves while we played at wildness.
I used to sit on the rocks by the ocean and just daydream about what it would feel like to return to the sea. Like a selkie who couldn’t find her skin, there was always a yearning to return. In the ocean, or the mountains, or the forest, there’s a strong voice in my heart that says “This is where I belong, and this is all I need.” In the past, I’ve brought small buttons of moss home from the woods, and tried to keep them happy and alive, but it never works. Now I pet them where they lay like small soft friends, and leave them, knowing that I can’t replicate their happy environment well enough. <3
Beautiful, Lindsay ♥️!
I’ve always thought that there was something magical about moss, and I love that we have moss growing on the rocks near our house. As a kid we lived up in the Catskill mountains. In NY. My brother and I would have adventures in the woods. I remember always believing that the fairy realms were real and would sit by myself and “listen” in the woods near our house for hours. It was my escape.
I did have an experience once in which I was visiting my parents during a break from school. We had gone to the Rockefeller preserve to hike. I remember deciding to sit under a tree to rest when I felt distinct joy emanating from the tree. I don’t remember what kind of tree it was just being startled that this had happened to me. I also kept it to myself because I didn’t think anyone would believe me.
I believe you, Maria! Thank you so much for sharing. ♥️
Moss grows in the deeply shaded areas at the base of trees at the back of my home. Lichen grows in the trees there too. Little grassy like clumps on the branches that get the least sunlight. When I first moved here I was struck by the magical and wonderous qualities, and something inside me stirred. I was raised in an ordinary suburban house and backyard, but always yearned for the Bush and the wild things that lived there. I would investigate every inch of the backyard, digging here, crawling under shrubs there. My curiosity brought even the ordinary to life. A small remnant of bush was nearby, and it was my joy to walk through it on my way home from school. Stopping to watch lizards or examine flowers. and yes to wonder at the lush cushions of moss growing in the lea of fallen logs. Did fairies dwell there? What were Australian fairies like? So many questions and then a scolding for being late home! Yes, moss is for memories, old and new.
Love your reflections on moss, Sarah!