Sometimes in life, I feel like I'm approaching the top of this great precipice. It's always been a great feeling. Because it's always precedented by so much floundering--in mud no less--seemingly aimlessly at the base.
Flounder, flounder, I go when suddenly, "Oh hey, there's a hill there! That's a pretty hill." More floundering.
Flounder.
I lavish myself with my floundering.
By the grace of God, I come to the conclusion that the hill should be climbed. Yes, that would be wise. "There's something fascinating about that patch of grass up there." Sopping from head to foot, I start climbing. It's soft-looking, the grass. And the way the sun illuminates the dew catches my primitive, seduced eyes. I have a strong desire to press my nose in that grass and inhale deeply. Part of me wants to consume it. Everything peripheral fades into blur. I must reach the patch. That's where I must be. That's my spot.
Climb, climb. I'm picturing myself there already as I walk. I like the image--me there in all that prettyness. The wind blowing through my hair, billowing it out behind me, riding a circuit on through the golden grass. Skip, hop. I look back at my old puddle of mud with disdain. Stupid. I reach down and scrape it from my clothes and my skin, from underneath my fingernails and even check the crevices in my ears. Most of it trails behind me in ugly clumps.
I'm very near the patch now. I break out into a run, smoothly dodging trees and rocks. My legs start burning a bit and my breathing becomes uneven. "I'm strong," I think, "this feels nice. I deserve the patch, really."
As I approach its skirting, I laugh and bend my legs to catapult myself over the last rock. My foot stretches to land just behind it, and I spread my arms gracefully. I'm sure I'm the picture of perfect female wildness. Before I bother to look down, in the span of one second, I feel the something amiss. My foot keeps going and lands, I realize, in a pocket of deep grass. My body twists, falling. Disrupted.
I feel each spot of pain. My gashed calf. My scraped knees. My grass-stained palms and elbows. My bruised ego. Everything hurts. Overwhelmingly.
I sit. And look at my wounds. And cry.
Perfect female wildness indeed. Stupid. I continue to look at my wounds until a daunting realization overcomes me. "I deserve these, really."
With no tenderness whatsoever, I scrape tiny rocks from my gash and watch it bleed until it clots. A few drops of blood rest on the grass under my leg. I feel sorry for it. The grass. I grab it in a handful and rip it from the ground, exposing its roots. I lay it next to me and wait for the wind to blow it away.
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