A friend of mine, several years older than I am, once told me he didn’t mind growing older as long as he remembered to dance with the wild god.
And who is the wild god, I asked?
The one inside you. Of course. I remember most how his eyes twinkled and the lines in his face deepened as if to hold all that life.
Lately, I’ve been thinking I need to invite the wild god back into my life. Once he was my mainstay. Then life and all that intervened.
It’s strange the way others see us and the way we see ourselves. Often so disparate. I’ve been called a free spirit, yet in many ways, I feel anything but that.
But I do love wild things and always have. Like the sound of hounds and bare hills that my favorite poet, Yeats, writes about:
“BECAUSE we love bare hills and stunted trees
And were the last to choose the settled ground,
Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because
So many years companioned by a hound,
Our voices carry; and though slumber-bound,
Some few half wake and half renew their choice,
Give tongue, proclaim their hidden name — ‘Hound Voice.'”
Last week I went to the Susanville Indian Rancheria Powwow and watched dancers give themselves over to the spirit of the dance. The wild god came down that night and I remembered how I used to say I would never trust any religion that banned dancing or music.