I know how hard it is has been. I know how you’ve been stumbling in the darkness, feeling the weight of that missing spark, that essential aliveness. Unable to hear the voice of truth – so long drowned out by responsibilities and obligations and fear and trauma and grief.
Or perhaps it hasn’t been that hard and really, you know that life is good and you are grateful and it’s not entirely heavy. But there is an undeniable feeling of disconnect. Of distance. Of separation from self and purpose. Close enough you should be able to touch it, and yet – for some reason you cannot. And the frustration of this dips and loops and causes confusion and fatigue.
I see you, and I know these spaces. Intimately.
I have come to refer to my essential self, my innate center, the pulse and spark and beat that is wholly me – as my wild heart. It beats steady and true. It is untamable, unbound by expectation, unconstricted by rules and regulations. This is my way of naming and knowing that piece of myself that is unchanging and true. My compass and guide. The space I return again and again.
And it is true that, in the course of living this life, I have lost my wild heart – my connection to self – again and again. Perhaps this is also true of you.
It may also be true that you believe that you’ll never find your way back.
But what if your wild heart is not truly lost or gone or missing?
What if it is simply that in order to survive you closed the door, locking it tight or ramming it shut or hiding the whole thing behind a brick wall so you wouldn’t be reminded of it or tempted to go looking when it was not safe or wise to enter. And over time that door became obscured by debris and covered in tangled vines and perhaps you even forgot it had ever been open.
But what if making your way back to your wild is not a complicated affair – not as complicated as we would make it, at least. Sometimes it is simply a matter of finding the portal that clears the path, the one that lets the door swing wide open – intentionally and yet without force.
So all that is needed then is to walk through, into the light that pulses with remembrance, and reunite with that which has been denied.
It is true that most of the time your wild heart – which is to say your truest essence – is closer than you think.
25 portals to your wild heart
- In the music, the low base, hip spin of the downbeat. In the lyrics that take you home. In the melody that sounds exactly like freedom.
- In the way that as the day has settled into night and the house is finally quiet and the candles throw your shadow against the wall, casting the curves of your body as art formed of darkness and light.
- In the darkness when no light remains and suddenly everything is finally seen, full and whole and holy.
- Under the moon, with only her as your witness, bare feet on wet grass, and the spin and the howl and the hands clasped in unspoken prayer.
- In the wilderness where a tangle of trees and mossy forest floor whisper and the wild things blink their eyes in the darkness to silently welcome you home.
- In solitude. In silence. In becoming and belonging wholly to yourself, responsible to and for no one else.
- In the ocean. In her pounding surf and relentless force and eternal return, in the salt and wet of her – the baptism of the way she brings you to a state of almost painful aliveness.
- In the unknowns. Inside of the questions for which there are no answers and yet you could write novels without trying – because the question itself holds that much.
- In the strength of allowing the questions to hold that much.
- In the liminal spaces. The in-between. The worlds between here and there where all is suspended.
- In the heat and sweat and salt of desire. In the space where body meets body and it all slip-slides into everything and nothing, all at once.
- In the contradictions. The hard and holy. The grit and grace. The juxtapositions and the paradox and the things that shouldn’t be but are – and in the breathtaking beauty of this.
- In community. In tribe. In a village of souls who see and honor and know. Who lift and hold. In the gathering around the campfire, where the pain slips away in favor of the music and the dancing.
- In truth spoken after long silence. In the reclamation of voice, the throat chakra set free, the deep knowing finally said aloud.
- In boundaries held – the hard spoken no that is the deepest honoring of self. In the holding of this, even in the face of hurt or misunderstanding or loss.
- In the harsh acceptance of unmet want. In the grief that drives you to your knees and the love that lifts you back up again.
- In the forgiveness. Not of him or her or them or the wider world. In the way you extend that toward yourself, and say yes. self – I love you. Yes, I honor you. Yes, I forgive you. For all of it. You did what you had to do, and it was the best that you could. Now, let it rest. It is time to rest. The time for penance is over.
- In the yes delivered clear, full-throated and honest. The holy yes that ushers in all that has been longed for and everything that has been waiting for you.
- In the spaces where wholeness is chosen over goodness.
- In the discovery that you already have all that you need and even more, all that you want.
- In the demand. The requirement. The statement of this is what I need and I will not settle for any less. Not ever again.
- In the burning and in the rising. The fire of initiation and the forging and the ashes and rubble and collateral damage. And in the painful forming and uncurling of wings, the stretching and tentative first attempts at flight. And then the soaring, high and free.
- In the revolution. In the hand painted signs lifted over heads and the marching and the chanting and the solidarity and the spilling into the streets in righteous anger.
- In the surrender. The acquiescence. The laying down the weapons and walking away from the battle. Because the fighting is over and it is now time for peace.
- In the words. Always, always in the words. The words that flow like honey from lips or that scrawl messy on page or click rhythmic from fingers onto keyboards. Not just the pretty and purposeful words – no. The raw and the gritty. The dark and unholy. The words that drip like hot wax onto waiting skin.
The words that shape the stories you once thought untellable. The words that are received and held and known and lifted by people you once called stranger. The words that stack one on the next on the next until they begin to form themselves into the story that changes the course of all things. The words that don’t just unlock the door, or swing it wide open – the words that blast off the hinges and knock down the walls until your wild heart floods your entire being with light and energy and freedom.
In the end, it is always the words that bring me home. The words that unwind the chains and break open the locks. The words that return me to myself, to my wild heart, to the truth of my being.
Tell me, is this also true for you?
If it is, grab paper and pen. Find a quiet sliver of space. Sit down and get ready to write yourself free.