The Quieting Of The Wilde Childe

I love where I live. I’m on the edge. I can ‘hear’ Friday night. I can hear people going places, visiting friends, bars, somewhere. Always. Like some sort of lemmings, the night sounds are alive and move in all directions, together.

I can hear it all happening. And I can be a part, without taking part. I suppose that is the comfort and joy of this village within a city.

Last night I was awoken to sirens. One, after the other, after the other, and you know that this is something serious. About 2 am, maybe almost 3am? Hot Flash woke, or the sirens, not sure which came first. Yet swirls along OUT THERE. On the fringes of this place.

Tonight I can hear the “crotch rockets” and the many tires on asphalt – a hum, a constant.

That is the sound of Friday Night in the city; least from afar. From an observer, or a listener.

And that is how I have been keeping…afar. Not to hide away, but rather more to embrace what I already have. To be grateful for it. To appreciate it, and savor it’s nuances and the charms of solitude.

What I like about here, is that I could go down the street, if I wanted, and sit there and watch Friday Night. The cars, the lights, the laughter at bars, but from afar. More on a hill as the city lights twinkle and sparkle and whiz through the night.

I’m much more careful. Not so wilde childe. Or, maybe even MORE so than before, actually. Away from the cacophony of the interactions at play. I prefer the chaos of the wild, over the taming of society. I prefer the long grassy places, the detritus that collects under trees, to the detritus that collects on our city streets; the plastic water bottles, and candy wrappers, the people.

Did I ever tell you, Mom, that I originally called this blog ‘Wilde Childe”? After Oscar Wilde and Childe Roland. You know Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”, by Robert Browning.

MY first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that purs’d and scor’d
Its edge, at one more victim gain’d thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guess what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch ’gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

Course when I googled it all these porn sites came up. So, reluctantly I let go. I realized that the wrong people would come upon it, and few would get it anyways. Well, except a random lit major, maybe. Those lines so reminded me of Tim.

My other reason was that song by Enya, Wild Child.

So for a week in 2012, late September, this blog was “The Wilde Childe Journal“. It embodied so much that I wanted to say. I listen now to that song… and I am learning to “let the day go on”. You always called me your “wild child”. I know, Mom. I know. I always was a little off in the clouds. That song still makes me tear up, you know, remembering you.

So, I gave in and fumbled around in the old brain for something else. Hence, The Temenos Journal was born. A word I’d come across years ago, I think in the context of something I read from Jean Shinoda Bolen. She’s a Jungian Analyst.

“Moisture and greeness have to do with innocence, love, heart, feelings and tears. All of the [fluids] in our body become moist when we are moved-we cry, we lubricate, we bleed, all of the numinous experiences of our bodies have to do with moisture. And it’s moisture that brings life to this planet, that is the cure for the desert experience and the cure for aridness.”
Jean Shinoda Bolen, Goddesses in Everywoman: A New Psychology of Women

So there, a little bit of trivia.

I see there are different ways to be “wild”. It is with age that wisdom instills a more fertile image of “wild”. With age, being “wild” becomes long hair, and dirty feet, and living more simply, getting more from less. Avoiding the taming that comes with society, for a nest of the sacred. Smiling when your feet hurt, full of joy as I fly through the air at 4:30AM on Rose, towards work.

That is now my “wild”.

“When you recover or discover something that nourishes your soul and brings joy, care enough about yourself to make room for it in your life.”
Jean Shinoda Bolen

And so I shall.


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