Who am I? (I am)
A writing exercise that led me deep into the forest - I want to know where it leads you
I have started a proper, for real, gen-u-ine, writing practice.
Until now I have written in the margins, as it were. I have no formal training, I have no informal training, not that I suppose either is necessary (what truly is) only a love of books and words and imagery. But I am also a life-long learner - I enjoy, in fact I crave, learning, knowledge absorbing, hoarding of imagery (thank you Pinterest) and words (thank you Substack) that make me feel. More than anything I want to get better at crafting those two things - images and words - to share the sensations, the feelings, the delicious minds-eye perceptions, shared impressions and ambience, a tiny shared thread. And so, in the morning I am spending a quarter hour with a prompt taken from a randomly chosen line in a book, or a thought that appeared on waking, and just writing. Writing without stop, writing to follow a thought or a sensation. Writing to follow a wish or a dream. Writing a dream. It has been an interesting experiment, and I am eager to continue.
I have started collecting books (oh, now this I am an expert in) about writing, particularly about writing about nature and the wild. Do you have any good recommendations? At the bottom I might list what I have on hand so far. Or maybe I will make that a whole other post because I have a lot of books about the wild I also want to talk to you about (and get your advice on what I am missing, which I am sure is a lot). At the moment I am working through “The Writer’s Portable Mentor”, which is not strictly about writing of the wild, but for whatever reason in the moment was the one I chose first. That is where this first exercise, the 15 minute free writing, comes from, (though I am sure it is commonplace knowledge to those more in the know) and the piece I want to share below is adapted from the exercise.
You might be a little familiar with the theme I seem a little stuck on, I am, and I am (boom-tish) wondering what all that is about too. It seems I am on quite a quest, an examination of who I am , how I am, why I am, and how we can ‘am’ together - and I love this nebulous transition, I love it today (I would have been scared of it not so long ago).
Graphite White Breasted Sea Eagle Original Drawing
There are thresholds that we approach in life - sometimes we walk through them, scared or excited. Sometimes we close the door or turn our backs and deny it is even there, let alone cross it. But these days I am finally finding a sort of internal peace that I don’t know I have ever really experienced. It may be an age thing, it may be a realisation that no one but me has the answers for my own life, it may be that I am finally aligning both mentally, physically, and spiritually with the work I know is important for me to show up to. There is a surrender, and an ease. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am still an A+ freaker-outer over seemingly stupid things, I can catastrophise and worry like they are Olympic sports and I am looking to retain the gold medal for yet another four years, and I still find myself in scarcity mindsets from time to time (often, really, more often than I would like), especially around money (and I am guessing you know what I mean here too). But there is a settling, a comfort, a re-rooting, and even if there is only a whiff of that medicine, I will take it.
I opened my copy of Kinship Vol04, Persons (one of the aforementioned books we must talk about), and turned to p38, where Daegan Miller wrote:
“Who am I, where do I belong, with, and to, whom?”
I picked up my pencil,
I closed my eyes,
I took a deep breath,
and asked myself the same.
I am. I am a Being. I Belong. I am Wild.
Who am I? I am. Where do I belong? I am. Who do I belong with? I am. I am a daughter of daughters of daughters. Wild-hearted names long forgotten, taken flagrantly, unashamedly, and quietly, acceptingly. I am a daughter of belongings, passed from father to husband, treasured and spurned, loved and lorn. I am a daughter of pain and pride, of passion and peace. I am wise, and I am clueless. I am curious, I am compassionate, I am inspired by so much, by so many, by the wild, always. I am evolving, I am learning to like who I am. I am courageous, and I am careful. I am afraid and I am fearless. I am an artist, I am an allegory. I am at once here and in between. I am vibration and emotion and fluid grace. I am haunted, I am sensitive, I am cunning, I am sage. I am winged, gloriously feathered and strong, wings so large to encompass us both in a warm embrace, though I hide them under the suit of armour that I wear throughout the day to keep me safe. I am wild, inside. I am lonely, but I like being alone, and crave it the older my bones grow. I am fretful of the unkindness of chaos and greed, that the more connected we are, the further apart we become. I am a being. I am a being of flesh and blood and memories and wishes. I am a being of deep pain, of regret, of possibility. I am a being who howls, sometimes quietly, sometimes at the moon. I am a being of light and dark, of hard and soft. I am a wild being. I am a being that belongs in verdant forests, on snow tipped mountains, in cool lakes and streams, surrounded by wildflowers. I belong where I can sing the song of the wild and it echoes through valleys below. Not in oppressive heat and concrete and pavement surrounded by machines and machinations and the constant hum of progress. And yet, this is where I am. Where I am, I am. I belong where the mosses are apple and lime and minty green, soft and springy and perfect to lay upon. I belong where the lichen clings to rock and tree, snow white and palest sage and burnt rust, organic art etched and inscribed, stories older than time. I belong where the tree bark is rough against my cheek, filled with little worlds within worlds, tiny ecosystems with tiny creatures I share space with for a moment as I run my hand along their home with a loving touch, filled with wonder, filled with awe. I belong where there are faint footfalls of softly furred feet moving slowly between bracken fern and leaf litter, nibbles of winter grasses and green tasty shoots, noses of velvet, deep, dark, kind, soft eyes. I belong where the azure sky peeks between the darkest green canopy I have to crane my neck to see, backlit by the lemon ochre sun. Where the plaintive cry of yellow tailed black cockatoo echo on approach and the cracking of nuts and the whispering of secrets begin. I belong where the fungi are numerous, fruiting bodies colourful and squishy and intriguing and gross. Where tiny blue pixies not knocked off by snow poke their miniscule cerulean caps towards the light, where the vibrant red shelf mushrooms get nibbled on by creatures unseen, where the trees talk to each other on the ‘wood-wide-web’ and I can almost hear and taste their sweetness. I belong where I hear the trees creak and groan where they sway, rubbing against each other in the breeze, dancing together entwined, while where I stand under their protection is still, calm, entirely tranquil. I belong with the forest creatures. I belong with the devils and quolls, the pademelon and possums, the wombat bumbling along, little dozer, the midnight indigo forest raven cawing behind me. I belong with the forest creatures of my ancestry, whose stories are written into my genes, the wolf and fox and deer and grouse who were my kin, who still are. I belong forever to those wild, ancient forests from another time, in the far north of the other side of the world. I belong with a land quiet and nurturing, soft underfoot, sweet caresses of leaf and bird to my ears, cold kisses from alpine air to my cheeks. Always, I belong to the green and to the blue, wherever I may roam. I am a daughter of daughters of daughters, and this wild place is my mother. I am the daughter of trees and mountains and lakes. I was born of this beautiful Earth. I belong to her. I belong with her. I am made of her. I am wild. I am. ~NE 15 Aug 2023
And so, dear one, I want to ask who you are, too?
Where are you from?
What wild lands sing the songs of your bones?
Whose breath do you share?
Whose skin do you share, deep in your cellular memory?
Do you have wings or fins or fur that you hide from the world?
There is wisdom in the practice of remembering our wild-hearts. In the day to day it is so easy to forget, to get caught up again and again in the seemingly urgent. I invite you to take a moment and think or write about who you are. Because you are so, so much, the very best sort of much, and we need much more of you. Write about who you are to yourself, rather than who you are to or for someone else. Embrace your perfectly imperfect wildness, your contradiction.
If you want to share some words in the comments, please do - let us witness you too.
Wild+Women Limited Edition Prints
Some beautiful reads this week:
The Crone Calling
Jo Hanlon-Moores
“What we do matters while we live and perhaps, if we’re lucky, for a while after in the hearts of people who have loved us, and then it’s gone. So what if it’s imperfect and messy? So what if it’s incomplete and not immaculately laid out? Have you seen Nature?! We must live - grateful for the wonder of it - while we can, and express who we’re here to be. Let Life live through us.”
Creativity is my religion
Allegra Chapman
“I believe that creativity is an act that brings us in tune with the creative powers of nature. I believe that it allows us to channel the creative force that flows through the universe, that flows through all of us, and to give back to our world by using that energy for creations of our own. I believe that through creativity we express, and therefore learn and nurture, the very deepest essence of who we are, and we see and connect to the essence of others. I believe that creativity is how we serve our world, our communities, and our selves.”
Today I needed to hear the wind
Luisa Skinner
“Sat here with my journal, my jeans sponging up the moisture of the wet earth below, I doodle, daydream, and pen stories of raw rebellion in midlife. That magical, liminal period, of waking up to the world around us; no longer young enough to take our lives for granted, but still with enough hopeful years ahead to make a truly, genuinely, positive impact. Please, please say we can.”
This is the age of The Square Peg
Keeley Rees
“Not just my own, but yours: My fellow Square Pegs. It was your paintings, your music, your photographs, your words, your art. They showed me new stories and pulled me forward. Your words, your art, your paintings, your sculpture, your songs have been my joy my whole life. I held them tightly, not going anywhere without my stories.”
So honoured to be walking this wild world with, beautiful beings.
This is a lovely read. You are a writer. It is your birth right. Embrace it. Also, there was a great essay in The New Yorker online this last weekend on 'the problem with Nature writing'. (Google should work) It was insightful in the ways we can all make it more successful! :) xx
I waited to read this until I had the space to savour it and I'm so glad I did. Natalie your words are truly breathtaking, so alive with the spirit and potency of the wild. I cannot wait to get my hands on a copy of the book your creating, I just know it's going to be magic.