THE WILD WITHIN

BY TRACY SCHLAPP

This week along the Willamette River, the cherry blossoms burst in the exuberant expression of my own spring fever. The pink petals reached up to Monday’s blue sky, and I skipped out of the office before my work was complete to take a long walk with a friend. Spring’s weather story moves faster than executive orders these days, which fuels impulsive behavior like running outside without a coat only to find yourself caught in a storm of rain and petals. With these final submissions for Issue 5: The Natural World is Everywhere, we read how the wild is carried in our writers’ souls.

Jacob W Harper’s Product of My Environment argues that the fiber of his being was constructed from the landscape of his childhood adventures. Face-to-face with Jacob, you can see that he shines bright with the energy of the woods:
My breakfast was the straits of Juan de Fuca, my lunch the rainforest, my dinner was the majestic Olympic mountains. Dessert filled my body with warmth, the love of people whose lives have been filled with hardship but had the time and desire to care about me.

Our newest Oregon State Penitentiary writer, Keisha Storey shares her in Nature Within. It’s been a pleasure to have add her considered voice to our weekly group:
Rays of sunshine pour through the windows of my cell; I feel gratitude for being alive and well, shining within my heart. As I fall asleep, I am reminded, that the night fall is temporary, just like the darkness I feel.

As I read JL Sandoval’s The Natural World Is Everywhere, I remind myself that his internal voice speaks in Spanish and that every bit of this essay required adaptation. I think of the determination required to write in your first language, let alone the one you are learning: To many people, a bird it’s just a wild animal, or just another type of species from the natural mother, but like a human being. A wild bird can be the exact definition of resilience.

Like the summoning of the tide, the moon cycle, the poet’s assertive inner voice often leaves little time for rest, as we read in Inner Dialogue by Chris Ainsworth.
The inner voice always in flux, full of authority.
Directing principles to the rightful place
Before waxing on about the stardust that fills us all.

One of the great pleasures of running six writing workshops per month is that we are given the opportunity to write alongside our participants. This gives us six opportunities to wait for the nibble, as former Oregon Poet Laureate William Stafford said of sitting down to write. Our very own founder, Danny Wilson closes us with his piece Solace.
The realization — the grasses are not dead but dormant, waiting, lying patiently for the hope in a single glass of water — brings a glint of hope that I feel in my chest.

It’s the end of the week now, and the day is dark and a little gloomy. My play time in the sun has caught up with me, and today’s deadline looms. As I write this final sentence, I am anticipate seeing the pink blossoms this afternoon contrasted against this blue-grey sky — mirroring my delight (and relief!) to be heading home. | TDS