Feb 08 2010
A Wild Urge
I’m not a big fan of winter. I envy those with winter sports to keep them outside all day. When I go for a winter walk, it rarely lasts more than an hour or two. I have snowshoes but only strap them on when conditions demand it. I’d rather just walk, and dream of early spring when the cold mud underfoot yields to my step. Truth is, I’m just biding my time, waiting for warmer days.
Before crawling out of bed this morning, I felt it: the urge to wander aimlessly through the forest. Some days the urge is greater than it is other days. This morning it is especially strong so I’ll head for the hills as soon as possible. Snowshoes or no, I’ll bolt as soon as I’ve taken care of any pressing business. Or maybe I’ll say to hell with work and just bolt.
Some people call it cabin fever; I think of it more as a wild urge. The mind can be a wild place and I’m comfortable living in my abstractions most of the time, especially during the colder months. But there comes a time when even the wildest thoughts are not enough. At such times the short walk I take during my midday errand running seems more like a prisoner’s daily hour in the yard than a bona fide outing. Then I know it’s time to bolt.
The mind can be just as wild as the body. Most people don’t get that. They think wildness involves lawlessness, irrational behavior or sexuality. Sometimes it does, but there’s much more to thinking wild than that. I call it creative thought, at the risk of confusing it with purely artistic urges. But I digress. There are times when wild thoughts simply do not suffice. There are times when the body must be as free as the mind.
So enough blather already. A wild urge isn’t placated by abstraction. I call myself a woods wanderer because, when push comes to shove, that’s what I have to do to keep from going crazy. Words fail me. I’ve gotta go.
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