Do You Remember Your Wildness?

You are intimately connected to this beautiful Earth. You are kin to the wild and winged things.

Your creative heart beats wild songs, songs of sap rising in towering trees, songs of feathers held aloft by wind, songs of soft feet walking through fallen autumn leaves. You are made of stars. You are north, south, east, west. You are earth, air, fire, water. And you are so much more.

Do you remember your wildness?

Over a year ago now, I released Wander|Wonder, a free little five day course to ignite your reconnection to the land around you, the place in which you are rooted. I still have occasional sign ups to this little offering, but I thought I might add the content, refreshed for where I am and how I am feeling now, here as well. Typically human, I find I am most inspired to follow my own direction when I speak about it more, and refreshing this content this morning has me excited for the next couple of weeks and walking alongside you all doing so.

Originally envisaged as a 5 day mini-intensive of sensory delight, here I am going to space the content out over 5 weeks, and I would just love it, if you feel comfortable of course, if you would share what these prompts bring up for you.

Together we will explore what it means to remember your wild heart by finding presence where you are right now, and revelling in the delights of five of your senses. We can use our senses to connect to the natural world, to maintain that connection, and to walk towards an intentional life filled with wonder and curiosity, compassion and reciprocity, and the joy of creative embodiment.

These are designed to be small, daily practices that will accumulate over time if done routinely, strengthening your connection to your environment, grounding your heart and mind, and providing respite from the noise of modern life.

You can spend as long or as little time on the prompts as you would like, and if something doesn't call to you today, put it away for later. They will always be here for you to come back to.

I can't wait to begin.

Come wander with me a moment

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Over the last few years (and even more so, I now realise, since I came to devote myself to realistic wildlife portraiture) I have had a complete re-enlightenment about my deep desire, in fact an abiding need, to be more connected with our Earth. Connected with the wild and wonderful that exists outside of manmade interventions. I have also come to realise that when my mood is lowest (and whoa boy, we can go low as a snake's belly), when I feel most helpless and hopeless (um, hello all of 2023), that I have not been connecting with the outside as much (or at all). I have daily interaction with the wild birds in my yard, yes, but I may not be getting enough “airs in my hairs”, sun on my face, the stimulation that happens to our entire body when we move through the outside world in some way.

(Isle of Skye, Scotland - 2017)

In my early and mid 20’s I felt quite grounded, in the sense that I gardened and grew some of my own food, would go for walks regularly, made herbal remedies and crafts. Then as life got busier, I was in the garden less and less, I was taking on a lot more work that kept me indoors and away from the sun and the soil. While I would still delight in the sounds coming through my windows, my deepest connections to the wild came from grand holidays or adventures planned with a focus on huge hikes and lots of outdoor time. Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia when I was 35, including the Inca Trail hike to Machu Pichu. Oxfam’s trailwalker in 2012 and 2013 with both of my brothers. Nepal in 2014 for my 40th, hiking to the top of Gokyo Ri and seeing Mt Everest so close I felt like I could reach out and touch her. Hiking around Scotland in 2017. And in between short breaks to Cradle Mountain in Tasmania, one of my most favourite places on Earth. 

These breaks away from daily humdrum and in a lot of cases completely away from technology, were so life-giving. They filled my well, for a short time anyway, and I relied on photos transferred to my computer and used as a screensaver for little top ups. So many memories, but a lot of the most vivid ones are from when I stopped, was completely present, filled with wonder and awe. Wild strawberries growing between hand hewn flagstones beside the Dudh Koshi in the mountains of Nepal. Wild deer in elevations above 4,000m in the Andes shyly watching us behind scrub. The tiniest of perfectly blue mushrooms in Tasmanian alpine forests. Complete awe and wonder. And often there is not a photo to accompany that memory, that precious memory is mine alone. It seemed though, that I could only have that deeply connective time if I was away from home and my normal routine. I would covet having a house on a large piece of land, of being enveloped by forest and far away from city or suburbia. Let’s be honest, I still harbour that beautiful dream, daily.

(wild strawberries growing in yak poop - Everest region, Nepal 2014)

The two most intense years of the pandemic created seismic shifts in us all, we all still feel the reverberations of constant fear and uncertainty. We collectively experienced being mostly shut away from the rest of the world, being in and out of various levels of restrictive lockdowns, and watching loved ones, acquaintances, our fellow humans experience illness and death on a larger, more complex and entangled scale than the majority of us were used to seeing in this lifetime. It is a lot for our nervous systems to have experienced, and indeed to try and heal from still now. I realised that I need to find that elevated, expansive connection that I feel while away, on a smaller, but closer and more consistent scale. A tethering. Even in the suburbs. Creating my wildlife honourings was part of this - I have spoken before about how I don’t just observe, I become the creature I am honouring as I work. This fosters delightful, expansive curiosity. As I am drawing reflections in their eyes and trying to see what they see, I realised that I needed to see reflections of the wild in my own eyes too. That meant lots of walks around my local neighbourhood. 

I want to pause here for a moment. 

The paragraph above was written at the very beginning of 2022, and as I was adjusting it slightly to match the current state of the world, and my thinking right now, I found that it still holds true today. As I was reviewing it though, at 7am on a Tuesday morning 17 months later, feeling a bit cranky and stiff and carrying the weight of this year still, ever present, like a cape of darkness heavy and stitched to my back, I realised I needed to rewrite the next paragraph. What had previously followed was a quick narrative of what I had seen on my morning walk before the original prose was written in January 2022. Deciding I needed to take my own advice (don’t we all), I donned my walking shoes and headed out. Here are some observations from this morning, Tuesday 9th May, 2023. 

What I found most wonderful is that though there are similarities, the fact that I wonder-walk often now means that my observations are keener, I am delighted at the smallest of noticings, and my mind is often quieter during these walks than it is during my morning meditation practice. All of my senses are eager to notice - not just my sight. I am primed to experience. That doesn’t mean that every morning I am automatically excited about going for a walk and revelling in observation - often (so often this year), like this morning, I still have to convince myself that it will make the world a little brighter by the end. And honestly? It never fails. There is a stillness, and an anticipatory excitement, to tuning into our senses, as many as possible, as part of a walking practice. If you can remind yourself of that, it may be easier to take that first step. I also try not to assign judgement to what I observe - I want to describe thoughtfully and curiously, and note my physical reactions to the stimulus, but not assign morality or judgement - what there is, there is, and in this context there is neither arbitrary good nor bad, there just is. 

I would love to share with you what this morning’s wander|wonder looked and felt like to me, that it might inspire you to take your own rambling. 

We have a water catchment area at the end of my street, which allows for watching all sorts of water birds and finches and wrens. Yesterday, before I crossed the road to the footpath that runs beside it, I could see 5 large white wading birds, and was excited to see what they were as I got closer. Two great egrets, an Australian white ibis, and two royal spoonbills, all intent on whatever wee fish were swimming around their long legs. The egrets are very timid, and though there was quite a distance between us, they took flight, the ibis along with them, to the other side of the catchment. The spoonbills just eyed me with the comical look inspired by the golden marking above their eyes. I am currently painting an egret, and this morning I was keen to see if they were there again today. I like walking this early, before all of my suburb is up and going (though it is already busy with commuters making their way, and before school drop offs at the two early childhood centres I pass on my usual 3km walk).

The egrets were there, but over the other side, so no close details to observe. Just that crooked neck, intense staring, patient, collected, cool, calm… before a dart of sharp beak (and sharper eyes) beneath the reeds. The sun was low and right at eye level, so I walked some of the flat path with my eyes closed, feeling the warmth on my eyelids and face, ‘seeing’ the world as an opaque curtain of orange-red, sunshine through skin. I could smell the preponderance of dog turds left behind by inconsiderate owners, the stale and stagnant end of the first watershed where the water pools among vegetation, the sweetness of some rogue honeysuckle and bramble berry flowers, and that distinct Australian bush smell, essential oils in the foliage activated by the rising morning warmth.

Reaching the end of the first path, I wait for a break between cars, cross the next road, and head into the path around the second watershed that is enveloped in trees. Above and behind I hear a distant quiet, plaintive cry, unique to this particular species, the sound that makes the skin along my neck and spine contract with emotion, and my heart grow two sizes. The little girl in me can’t help but smile with delight. I turn my face up in time to see two yellow tailed black cockatoo fly overhead, languidly, gracefully, their long tails flowing behind them - they are pure magic.  What a beautiful way to start this path. A few steps in the scent changes, much more earthy, woodsy. I hear a creak up high, one of the leggy saplings vying for sunshine sways gently, the creak is her bones singing at the movement. The tiniest wind sounds through the upper leaves of the casuarina. A mosquito buzzes close to my ears.

I can hear “if you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands” coming from the nearby childcare centre - I can’t help but clap my hands (clap clap).

Just a few more steps and the sound of children is replaced with the chatter of lorikeets, and I keep my eyes trained to the tree branches, ever hoping to catch a glimpse of a tawny frogmouth I know is here, because she left me a feather one day. It is an impossible task. The breeze feels like it is coming off snow, and the tip of my nose is delightfully cool, my cheeks too. The wood irises have started to flower. I love this weather. Rounding a corner I hear a magpie serenading the morning, and another is on the path ahead, leaning her head to one side, basking in the golden rays. She sees me and up into the tree she goes, but only for a moment, chased off by a native minor, a third her size. I hear maggie's distinctly “cranky flying” wing noises (if you are Australian you know what I mean) as she stays just ahead of the little menace chasing her.

There are three shags (little black cormorants), wings outstretched, drying off on a casuarina branch that extends over the water. I pull on the leaves of a melaleuca and bring my fingers to my nose - that distinct almost disinfectant smell of tea tree, warm and strong, pine-like and woodsy. I hear the sounds of ducks wading and splashing and bathing in the shallows. The sun is now on the right side of my body, and as I round the corner ahead, she will warm my back. My shoes slip slightly on the large volume of nuts the she-oaks have dropped - indeed these are what the black cockies are looking for. I feel my body instinctively “engage 4wd” to compensate and minimise the potential for a catastrophic joining of cement path and bum (or face!).

I greet a pair of wood ducks to my left, and get wary quacks in return, and I head back to the first path. I hear the red-browed finches in the tea tree scrub. I notice my shoulder blades have moved down my back a little, relaxing. The muscles in my neck and back are so tight, but the sun on them, the relaxing motion of walking, they are soothed. Ahead to my right a water hen flicks her blue-black tail in irritation and alarm, exposing her little white petticoat, and I can’t help but mimic that action (oh, I am sure I looked most strange!). I smile and watch as my shadow elongates ahead of me now - and I am rooted into and on this earth in duality, this (somewhat) corporeal body, energy and matter in one manifestation, and in shadow, scraping and gliding, growing and shortening, dark and light - perfectly in time with my own steps, a secondary beingness.

Back up my street I go.

This act of noticing, of bearing witness, of experiencing, is a gift. As I notice, I narrate it to myself in my head, wanting to capture the nuance and wonder. I also enjoy coming back to my desk and reliving the walk by writing it out in my journal. I was here, at this date and time. I was truly present.

Wander|wonder.

Wonder|wander.

(Andean deer Warmiwañusqa (Dead Woman’s Pass), Inca Trail - Peru 2009)

Taking time to notice these little bits of magic, in such small and easily achievable bite sized amounts of time, inviting nature into heart and home in a more profound way. I look forward to a wander, albeit in my neighbourhood or my small backyard, to seeing what I can find, to looking at more than my feet, to looking at more than where I am going, to being present rather than in my own head and barely seeing what is all around me. This is union and confluence to me. It is being present where I am and knowing that I don’t have to be in far away places to find that connection I seek. It is seeing the tiny magical beings under my nose, or in my trees and shrubs, it is acknowledging the personhood of the creatures around me, of the trees and rocks and hills and watersheds. And acknowledging them means I am acknowledging that I am here too, I am witness to wonder. 

This is suburbia, and while I constantly long to wander through cool alpine forests, there is so much nature, so much wildness, surrounding me right where I am. Right here. Right now. My own garden, the neighbourhood plantings, the small reserves and children's playgrounds that the birds inhabit as their own.

What a gift, right? 

So let’s do some wonder-wandering together - focusing on one sense per week. 

But what if there is no “nature” near where I can walk to?

Oh, but my friend, there is, I promise you, even in the most concrete of jungles. Nature finds a way. See that tiny fern frond peeking out from between those bricks on the side of the building way up? What about that sweet little yellow flower reaching up through the cracked sidewalk, what some might call a weed but which you and I know is magic wrapped in petals. There are pigeons everywhere, but did you also notice the hawk soaring between buildings looking for some pigeon sized dinner? What about the incredible reflections of clouds on those office building windows, they are a celebration, a casting of a thousand skies to remind us to fly free. There is always nature to be found when we look for it. The size and species of the tree doesn’t matter. Those spindly trees boxed into tiny growing patches between pavement will love you talking to them as much as the most dense forest of giant sequoia. And they will open up to you too. You will be amazed at what you can find - open your eyes, open your heart, and revel in the magic.

But what if I am not able to get outside at all?

There can be lots of reasons you can’t get outside today, or at all - that’s ok, chances are you already have some ‘nature’ inside, or can find a window to gaze out of. Do you have any potted plants? Do you have any animals/pets inside with you? Do you have any fresh produce? There are also amazing videos on Youtube to inspire. If you use this option, I recommend slowing the playback speed right down and turning the sound off (extra points for putting nature sounds on instead). Sit comfortably, slow your breath, and focus on the green that you are seeing on screen. If something catches your eye, pause the video and take a closer look. If you have pets, although we think we know them so well, try to watch them when they don’t know you are looking. Marvel at the way their bodies move - what are they looking at? What do you think they might be thinking? Did you know potted plants love being spoken and sung to, and that caressing their leaves is good for both them and you? What can you see out of your window? Are there birds you can see and converse with? What is the sky doing right now?

Ok. I am excited to do this with you.

(male superb fairy-wren - home 2022)

On Friday I will send you the first of 5 sensory prompt adventures, and let's do this together. I would love it if you share your wandering in the comments each week, that we might get to experience other wonder-walks together in lands far away, different climates and creatures. How special that would be. For today though, I am back to my easel - yesterday a hummingbird fell out of my brushes, today I think it will be a Gouldian finch. Who knows what excitement the day may bring!

I wish you so much wonder and wander-walking my friend!