Updated: Feb 14
Wild, Like Deer
Early morning, hot bath
we sit naked in a quiet stillness
unpierced by the busyness of others.
You are 5 going on 6, and I am almost 44.
We have been doing this
your whole life.
From your growing body, I pluck
two tiny, squirming creatures. Ticks
beginning to burrow into the sweetness
of your brown skin.
From my own, I have removed three since this whole
(They can try to take this girl outta nature but you just can’t take the nature outta this girl (and boy).
Outside these glass-paned, studio doors, the velour hills of Marin County sway in the breeze as black tailed deer bound through the surrounding, grassy slopes. Swift in action with gentle grace their beautiful embodiment reminds me of the medicine that is needed now.
Prancing swiftness. Bounding grace. Beauty embodied.
Swiftly prance. Graceful bounds. Embody beauty.
And so, I raise you, like me.
Flinging your early-to-rise arms wide to the world, reaching for the light of the sun as we simultaneously jump across the moon.
Yet, there is an urgency here to tend to. Like the depleted soil that also needs our attention, so too does the wild masculine need our support.
For He is endangered on planet Earth, now.
With vigilance, I protect your inherent birth right.
In guidance, I promote our balance - one foot firmly stuck in the mud and the other now perched, seated, eyes wide, behind the screen of an iPad.
Let us bee wild like deers, my Love.
For our evolution depends on it.
xoxo (I wrote this poem not long after San Diego's beloved Enchanted Gardener, and one of my mentors over the past decade, experienced an empowered transition between life and death. I dedicate it to him...) For you,
Leslie Goldman whose passionate tongue often spoke pearls of poetry, beauty and Love. We shall forge ahead with your Legacy in our Hearts.
Three weeks spent on the property of two sisters, who became like sisters to me over 20 years ago. There were garden beds for collecting our own greens and a trampoline for exercise and play as well as the plentiful nature surrounding Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. (There was also a wood-barreled hot tub outside where three, naked women, and a few of our surrounding children, hopped in naked.) C and I were finally in the land of the big trees. A place where Burt and I had openly fantasized about visiting together and showing our son. I needed to cry about it as we crested the green, velours hill of the south Bay and acres of wind turbines appeared.
Arriving into a granny flat studio below a deer-dotted, Barnabe Mountain in which I was able to push the furniture aside and make ample use of the wood floors. My Dance of Grief continued here. I accessed my Dance of Anger here too. We also celebrated our Mama Caravan with our first meetup to celebrate the summer solstice (along with a 3rd birthday for a precious, little girl) with some of my significant, Soul sisters from San Diego. Women whom I have known throughout space and time, beyond just this one lifetime's iteration. And, after weeks of wondering how I was going to involve my 5-year old son in the Black Lives Matter movement for racial and social justice, we were able to attend our first protest. It was an act of civil disobedience that another Mama whom I had first met in San Diego had helped produce. Brief speeches were made and conversation through inquiry was encouraged amongst us audience members (most of whom were wearing masks.) For 8 minutes and 46 seconds, the experience completed with the group laying their silent, unmoving bodies down on the blacktop in the middle of a downtown intersection. Stifled sobs could be heard as we all choked back our breath. My sweet boy who had lost his Father to death in January did not want to participate. So, I laid at the top of the stairs. My old life of activism radically altered. I now bow at the altar of Motherhood as the greatest radical act of my life. Join Me. (Above is another poem, like this one I wrote over the soft start to our caravan in Vista, that I wrote in gratitude for this experience.)