Lost Woman found

Call into the forest—what do you hear? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 In blossoming March, two months after the death of her father. “You have to become feral; it’s not something you can simply decide to be,” I told her as I held her and we looked out at the forest that had once been a plot of land, where her father had lived. Between books and trees, trees through books, book‑trees that wound out of windows, and the ivy that grew over it like a soft wave of green. 

 

 

There were two ways to go feral. 
We stated. 
We found out, after his death. 
We discussed. 

 

Her therapist told her: 

“Seek the wise, wild women in the forest.” 
And I wondered how far she would have to go to find them, where she would have to go—or had I already found some? 

It took us half a year to let it happen, almost casually yet not unplanned, in the midst of a sweltering August. Before the project I had thought up—for her, for the others, for those who want to feel beautiful and those who wanted to forget their everyday lives, for all who were searching— 

I read aloud: 

Go out into the forest, 
go out.1 

I had wanted to tell her this for a long time: 
“I can see you’re fenced in.” 
I had already told her once: 
“I’m afraid of your garden fence, its straight lines, its varnished, painted dark brown.” 
What I actually wanted to say: 
“I think you’re afraid of it, too.” 
I wanted to tell her: 
Go out into the forest. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART I: Initiation 

 

 

an invitation, 
maybe a: 
pack the car with as many wild women as you can, 
drive into the forest, 
put on music, 
then 
get undressed 
and start rubbing yourselves with leaves— 
become forest. 

 

she discovered the earnest ones 
and joined them. 

I often told her: 
“I like those who wear their chaos on the outside.” 
“But then,” she asked, “why do you like me?” 
And I searched for the answer. And searched and said: 
“Because you can tell that control isn’t something that comes naturally to you.” 

 

 

find an abandoned building, 
occupy it for the day, 
touch its wild, peeling walls 
with your bare skin, 
dance across the buckling floorboards, 
trail your fingers along dusty banisters, 
touch light that falls through mildewed curtains— 
become building. 

 

 

she saw confusion beneath the anger 
and hurried to soothe it, 

​

This year she often told me about her mother, or rather, her rage‑monster. She tried to get close to it, to hold the soft part, to nourish it, to say: It’s okay to be everything at once. 

I told her: 
“You’re giving her this okay—she can hold on to it, hand over hand. But maybe you need it too, this okay.” 
I wanted to give it to her, in the forest. 

 

groan, moan, creak, strike with the wind, 
murmur, 
humm, 
a swarm of battle wasps. 

 

she saw love in the eyes of the shy 
and reached out her hand to them, 
 
And before we drove into the forest I told her: “Gladly offer your hand to the others—but not only to them. Offer it to yourself too; feel into your shyness, the fear, the grief, and embrace it, gently, while you take off your shoes and feel the earth.” 

cry, if you want, 
howl, screech, grumble, 
grieve 
on your knees, 
shameless. 

she saw the suffering of those who clenched their teeth, 
and courted their laughter, 

And at the beginning I asked: “When was the last time you danced across a clearing, truly free?” 
“Oh baby, it’s a wild world—I will always remember you like a child,” I sang softly and gripped the camera tighter. 
I wanted to capture that first moment. 

no fear of the forest floor. 
Touch‑me‑not. Bare skin. Nipple hair. 
Dirt like freckles. 

 

she saw the plight of the man without words 
and spoke for him. 

I told her: 

“You don’t have to speak for your father today. If you’re burnt out, if you’re tired, you can leave it. You may speak only your own words. You may forget him for a moment.” 
She smiled bitterly when I said that. The drama of the gifted child. 

 

 

                Bark in the hair. Sticks in the mouth. Tasting the forest. 
Let a spider’s nest brush your toe. Let mushrooms spring. 
Bounce with them. 
Become spiders— 
become forest. 

 

 

she saw faith deep in the woman who said she had none, 
and rekindled it with her own. 

I quickly forgot who was comforting whom, kindling whom, holding whom, seeing whom, photographing, orchestrating. 

 

Go out into the forest, 
go out. 

​

Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Wolfsfrau, pp. 571–572