Dispatch from the Northlands, II

The Protected Place, Cortes Island, British Columbia
January 5, 2015

I live without electricity, wake before the waxing moon sets and watch her, knowing that the wolves wander below the bluffs and that, come morning, it will fall to me to build a fire beneath the morning star.

I have no fear of evenings alone. Indeed, I’ve come to cherish them in the way a bald eagle cherishes the land on which it comes to rest bearing prey. Did you know that eagles talon’s cannot release a catch before landing? Any catch too heavy and they may fall from the sky as victims to they’re own hunger, a fatal oversight.

Some days I lay waste before the hungers of my own heart. And not for the things for which I have been taught to hunger, no, not for cheap comforts and convenience and a life of servitude. I hunger for fire and laugher, for companions who will howl with my at the moon.

There is an unfathomable power in sisterhood. Here in the wildlands I howl with my sisters, weep and wail and laugh with my sisters. We dance naked in the snow around blazing fires and scream in icy ocean waters as the tides rush out. We know the secret paths of wolves, who eat their prey whole, and of bald eagles who fly overhead at the place where clouds form. We sing into the fires that warm us, come morning. We do not fear one another. We do not fear ourselves.

We are women who survive off silence and singing. We have slaughtered domesticity. Only the wild remains.

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