THE WILD

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A few weeks ago, someone told me that experiences of the soul are like waiting for a wild animal. 
If you wanted to witness one, you wouldn’t clamor and clang in the brush making a shit-ton of noise. 
You’d sit.
And you’d wait.
Quietly.
Softly.
Patiently.
With no agenda.
Without expectation. 
If it appeared, you’d just marvel and watch.
And if it came close, you’d slowly reach out your hand and maybe it would brush past you; your palms passing over lean muscle and long limbs. 

But if it didn’t appear, you’d just come back the next day.
You’d sit.
You’d wait again.

And I’m seeing how similar it is with people.
If you wanted to witness someone in their wild, in their truest skin, you wouldn’t clamor and clang in the brush making a shit-ton of noise. 
You’d sit.
And you’d wait.
Quietly.
Softly.
Patiently.
With no agenda.
Without expectation. 
And what they offer of themselves to see would be the object of marvel, of wonder, of appreciation.
That’s the gift. 

You wouldn’t try to put a leash on them or coerce them into a cage or follow them with your stupid, burping Jeep. 

You’d want them to be free just as you are free.

You’d honour their wild.

Dani Kreeft1 Comment