Wild Child

I want to ride rocky roads and snorkel wild rivers, perhaps in Australia with crocodile eyes around me. I want to throw myself off mountains, barrelling down on a bike or a board, clinging to a rope, or flying with a nylon chute on my back.

I want dirt on my hands and my hair plastered with grime. I want a body slick with salty sea, water stuck in every crevice, molding to me in the heat of a beach fire after a mighty swim or sail or paddle.

I want to climb the mountain trails for hours, survey everything from the top, feel the burn in my thighs and, only then, allow myself whatever treat I can’t resist.

I want to ride rocky roads and snorkel wild rivers, perhaps in Australia with crocodile eyes around me.

I want to sleep under the stars. Pee under the stars. Be one with the cool air. This is my first instinct.

I want to be part of the tribe that doesn’t get into conversations with naysayers—the ones living in fear of the wild, staying put amid their luxuries. The ones stuck in a routine of working to pay for comforts until their bones ache, and there is finally enough free time to embark on cruises where there is food aplenty and the excursions are risk- and adventure-free.

I want all this all the time. As I write in the morning, as I work, as I make dinner, as I watch Netflix before bed. As I go to coffee shops, as I walk the dogs, as I sweat on the treadmill, as I drive around my fair isle.

As I dream of doing the tightrope walk that is devouring each day, and then turning to a cozy island paradise each night. Where home is a safety net of layered green and thick air. Where water hugs the land as though a mother cradling her restless child.

I keep living my days in a soft and warm island space, doing the same things over and over and over again. I write, I work, I watch, I whittle. I socialize, I sleep, I drink, I dream. I say I am not regretful, but these are my days, knowing inside that I am a wild child.

📖 This article first appeared in The Home Volume of FOLKLIFE Magazine.