The Wylding

​,All through my life, all places I have grown. I have and have been around, Wylding.
A piece of land, left. No touching, no entering, no interference by family at all. If an animal wonders in, well, that is their choice. But no child, no Grand Ma and no me, permitted. Yes, thoughts count and should not be directed there either.

For me, in order to feel free, I have a space, a space within where I go to explore, lift, sometimes, entertain, thoughts very deep and to me fearful, but always private. It is my space though, and no hook, no thing, may enter. I am a Sovereign Soul. This space within, is in a way, my Wylding.

Within my yard. Off vision, you mightn't naturally find this area. O.k. so some of my friends might pick this spot, quickly. There is a place, where lawnmower is banned, roundup warded (actually whole property) and no one, may enter. This is my garden Wylding. I don't know if any one lives there. I don't pry, too much, as privacy, a place to breathe, to hang out and be, is a necessity for anyone, or thing, in surviving the stress of this world. I wonder if these places, the Wyldings, are not sometimes, places where beings too old to bear it any more, go to sleep. Sometimes forever.

As a child the Wylding, was magickal. No I never, shhhh, but in Kaiuma, between the house and the creek, where the creek forked, the Wylding, softly hid. Here, it was protected, by clever paths around, easier, better, more to see, shiny magpie things, that led around, rather than through. One never entered, for the wood here was strange, not that I would know. Finding ways between the dense wet ferns, flax and colonialism, perhaps, gorse, was icky and ouchy. And one would of had to squiggle and really wriggle, through prickles, woody manuka and wet and wetas. But if one were really in need of hiding, in need of a, can't be found space, then perhaps, one might enter. One might find other beings there too.

Around the home, at Grand Ma's Past the sheds, past the plum, the potatoes, turn, eat at the peas, skip on past the hedge, approach the walnuts and shh for here were the bees. Bees require a flight path, a way of leaving and returning home. so clever are these, so ouchy, one must be sure permission is asked, before one passes softly by. And there, between two hedges, guarded by bees, whom I never saw enter. Again, a Wylding. This one I never entered, it was still to close to home, one should never hide in the same place twice, if one truly does not wish to be found. And though more meadow and scented sweet than Kaiuma, this Grand Ma's Wylding existed through mans desire. Whereas Kaiuma existed because it was clever, most simply didn't see it.

My home now, New, only 1890's or so, much played with, surrounded by suburbia. Flown over by increasing air traffic, and seven years old, though pacts have been broke, two years rededicated. A beehive awaiting a Queen. No offerings, no noticing, no weedeating, no threat of poison, barely a glance, a Wylding.

In peace, strength and love
Juhl

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