Last March after the first exhilarating weekend of a year-long Call of the Wild journey, I returned home with the nag that my childhood relationship with nature was not the one I heard my companions share. I did not recognise their lands though I spent much of my childhood outside, moving through very different terrain and relishing different kith and kin. I wrote Dandelion Wee and Buttercup Chin as way of remembering those days whilst honouring my Wild inheritance. I planned to share it at the next fire so a working class, Midland girl’s wild was on the table. I never did tell it to my new friends though, as a Storyteller spark called in old tales and I couldn't hold two stories in my fireside shy heart. I still love what I wrote, it brings me home every time I read it. I recently rewrote a bite sized version for Tanya Shadrick’s wonderfully generous and stimulating Substack, The Cure for Sleep and I was surprised when I realised I have never shared it here.
What is your Wild inheritance?
Dandelion Wee and Buttercup Chin
I start at an edge, where a town thins to barn and farm in 1970s England.
I am of bike wheel and dust, the trodden flank of farm and canal. I am the sandy edge of Brook, of imagination denned by Hawthorn at the limit, of left alone long Grass, Dock and Nettle. I am Daisy chain, Dandelion wee and Buttercup chin. The escape of Bills Wood, backs to Oak hide and seek, and Hedgerow safari. I am everyone’s Rose, the Daffodil lines of Her, the Dahlia show of Him, a South American escort to a Birmingham back gate.
I am of back garden, blankets and clothing peg tents. I am Snail, Slug and Earthworm, digging and mud-making in borders, Brother eating them all to know. I am flying Ants swarming from crazy pathing, of Wasp and Bee chasing Sister screams. I am Daddy Longlegs in lampshade, Spider in shower, Silverfish in cupboard. I am Donkey under me at the Derby, Praying Mantis tickling young arm, the excited white Rat in small hand.
I am fear that tethers me taut when Vixen screams across railway bank, the shivering haunt as felines find wild in the corners of night. I am joy of jumping the Wave, the stained smile of Blackberry mouth, the freedom of being unseen in tall Fields. I am the roll of first frolic in long Grass, going home with telltale Seeds all over my back. I am the nervous pace of Girl hemmed between back garden fences, lawn cuttings and too much quiet.
I am Grass, Grass and more Grass, Council cut and lawned by my Men. I am Monstera Yukka jungle tended by my Women, the wonder of Venus Fly Trap and Mushrooms growing under my bed. I am of Rain never stopping play, of rulers measuring back door Snow, and the overcooked summer of ’76. Always the Sun, head back and arms wide worship into my bone of the Sun.
This is my wild inheritance.
Mom never camped, Dad one night, didn’t like. No walking boots under our stairs. My parents are of working class wild in the lands of Park, of city recreation, of country estate with picnics and a weekend compulsion to get out. Of holiday sand and dunes, rock pool Crustacean and Jellyfish army beached. And ever back garden proud.
This is the soil I grew in.
I teened, urbaned deeper, became of Art School and cool, abandoned wild in memory, fixed my eye forward to the viewfinder’s frame. My wild thinned, to a backdrop, a houseplant, a holiday.
And She waited, knowingly, for a decade and some more. Til time when I lived tower-block high and became of Cloud and Sky, Horizon and Bird, held in their solace from a nagging, becoming daily, distress. I was sixteen floors far, far away from the Earth, and a long, long way from myself.
Enough, She commanded. Clamped my wrists and wrenched both arms long out of that high, high Sky window. Stretched me down sixteen floors out of my monologue, shook me through council estate and did not buy a ticket for depression at the tram. She tugged me back to Her Soil and I did not protest, dug deeper, soiled myself in Earthly delight. I looked down under my feet again, as that child on Welsh beach, found movement from my Heart and looked to the Elements for answers. I became of Seed and Soil, Water and Air, of winged friends, of Horsetail, Balsam and Bindweed. I gulped new breath with them all, revelled in dirt under nails, mucky knuckles and sweat-swept hair as I rode the tram, grasping my spade Boudicca triumphant to answer commuter stares. My adrift was rooted in a neglected rectangle of Soil behind a football stadium, Manchester, 1998. It was thought unusual, curious, laughable for a young woman to be allotmenteering.
I did not yet see that as I cleared the ground, added Horse muck and Seaweed, drilled lines for Seed, watered and spoke to it all, I was tending to myself. Clearing my corners of the gone over and deadened, enriching myself, purposing, listening and feeling again. I was courting the wild into relationship and I did not know it. Hours composted in me until I walked with the garden within and I turned to another direction, like Seedling turning to Sun. A remembering of seasons and cycles, of inter-connections, of what I am part of and where I belong.
I am every fruit tree and plant lovingly tended, of weeds I learn to befriend. I am of gifted Wild Garlic, Mushroom and Bilberry, of Feather, Bone and Scat. I am of Machair, Clod and Thicket, the deep time of Pebble, Boulder and Stone. I swam in reverence with Water, walked alone in darks. I got down on all fours and attended to the micro, scoured my own map within. I found Glaciers in my heart, wild fires in my eyes, and a Wolf under my skin. She whispers me deeper, literally trips my feet, plants face to ground when I don't listen. Where is my wild?
I start still with our story unfolding, my edge now greeting yours.
I wake for the drum of Woodpecker, take my glasses off to draw. I am your doorstep devotion, the prayer morning and night. I am Hazel in hand rhythm-ing my mission, the hoik over Private No Entry, the inbreed fear-fizz of Trespass, and the bone memory of …this…is…our…fucking…right. I am new nose sharp sniffing, softer gaze, deeper ears reaching. I am pores open, the tingle of sprouting fur. I am presence, offering, and invitation, and I am still figuring it out. I am first leafless Oak truly seen at 53, of unique shape, bark and bough. Oh, the wonder I now allow myself to see, the wonder I allow myself to be.
I will listen long, for all your names and offer, how can I now be of service to you?
One to Get Excited About
The songbirds are returning, layer by layer and I am already feeling the draw to take my early morning coffee outside with them. My bird identification skills had never reached much further than Robin and Blackbird until a wonderful RSPB guide shared the Merlin Bird App - it’s a game changer! Part of its’ cleverness is the ability to use your microphone to record the bird song and the app identify it as the bird and birds sing - I know, Shazaam for Birds! It has opened up a whole other scape for me and I am beginning to truly hear.
I enjoyed it 😊
Love this!