She is a wild woman.

She is a wild woman. In today’s dichotomy of a society that tells her to be virtuous and morally upstanding all the while extolling through a variety of media that beauty products, cigarettes, or fabric softeners that will make her attractive and sexually appealing, she has found herself. Or rather, placed herself. Dug in with the shovels her parents gave her. Into the soul of the earth she has furrowed her own foxhole.

In the thunderstorms of her life, she stands in the field, arms spread like a pilgrim at a holy shrine when the truth of it is, she’d rather cower and run. Instead, she invites the thunderclaps of clarity and the white hot flashes of revelation that cook her thoughts and sear their graffiti onto her brain.

The messages left, secret love notes to herself tucked into the pockets of her overalls are read in the early dawn or failing twilight. Only in the light of the moon does she really look at her own reflection and never for long.

In each experience, brave bungee jumps out into the world she comes back to earth with a new skin. She molts, and will molt, she hopes until the last breath she takes, which is exactly why she skips herself like a stone on lakes and streams to begin with. Slowly, she lets herself liquefy and ever so carefully she pours the ore of herself into a mold that she herself created.

Politicians and self-proclaimed men of the cloth tell her things that she cannot absorb. In the end the only book she truly accepts as divine is the one written on her soul and in her chest beats the heart of a gypsy’s lover.

In her own landscape, there are valleys of shame, have no doubt. Decisions made, words spoken appearing right at the time become lessons which seem never to be learned.

To be a wild woman means making her own rules, which while providing freedom also comes with the fearful knowledge of having no roadmap, no nautical chart, and no compass to follow. Only the chalk arrows of experience to point the way, and sometimes it rains.