On Monday evening, I finally gave in to the tug in my chest that had been whispering all day: go outside. For two days I had been cooped up in my office, head down over big projects, barely noticing that the summer air had shifted. By the time I laced my shoes and headed for the east bench trails in Draper, I could feel how much I needed it—not just the movement, but the wildness itself.

The moment my feet hit the rocky path, something in me loosened. The sky stretched wide, heavy with storm clouds stitched through with bands of late-day light. The air was thick (humid, by Utah standards), and alive with beetles skittering, dragonflies weaving their glimmering threads, and lizards darting into the brush. I realized how small my office had made me feel, how compressed and narrow my perspective had become. Out here, even with a storm threatening overhead, I remembered: I am vast too. The sky above me was no longer something I glanced at from a window—it was a mirror of my own expansive, contradictory, storm-and-sun self.

Wildness as Reflection of the Inner Landscape

I often notice how the natural world echoes my inner state—though maybe what’s really happening is that nature sharpens my awareness of it. That evening, the turbulent sky mirrored the swirl inside me: joy shimmering in my chest alongside the weight of grief I hadn’t quite named. The mix of shadow and light above me became a living reminder that wholeness is never one-note. We carry it all—blue sky and thunder, stillness and chaos.

As I climbed the switchbacks, I passed plants in every stage of their cycle: some withering back into the earth, others still blazing with flowers, and a few just beginning to bud. It struck me how honest this was. Nature doesn’t apologize for being in multiple seasons at once. And neither do we need to. Parts of us are dying away, parts are in radiant bloom, and parts are just peeking into life. Messy? Yes. Beautiful? Absolutely. Integration means honoring all of it.

Breaking Free from Productivity & Control

What I love most about the wild is that it cannot be managed. We might rope off sections of a trail to help vegetation recover, but nature itself resists containment. She grows unruly and resilient, weaving life in unexpected places.

Since moving into my new home, I’ve missed having an outdoor sanctuary. My old backyard was carefully cultivated—each plant in its place, a tidy kind of beauty. But lately I’ve outgrown that. What I long for now is not control, but freedom. I want a backyard alive with wild roses, herbs that claim their own corners, flowers that reseed themselves without permission. I want the kind of garden that feels like the trail I hiked—spacious, alive, unapologetic.

And as I notice that longing, I see it reflected in how I’m choosing to live my life. No longer manicured to fit the expectations of others. No longer boxed in by definitions of success that never belonged to me. I’m learning to let my inner wild garden grow—messy, yes, but rooted in authenticity.

Teachers in the Wild

The wild doesn’t just mirror us; it teaches us. Sometimes through landscapes, sometimes through creatures that cross our path.

The coyote, for instance, often slips into my awareness. Trickster and transformer, coyote shows us the paradoxical truths we’d rather avoid. He disrupts routines, nudges us out of comfort, and reminds us not to take ourselves too seriously. His lesson? That laughter, adaptability, and disruption are as much a part of wisdom as solemnity.

Another teacher is the praying mantis. When I see one, it always feels like time itself is holding still. Patient, prayerful, focused—the mantis embodies the power of waiting, of trusting the right moment. Its stillness mirrors the kind of inner discipline I need when my life starts spinning too fast.

Or the moose—majestic and solitary, yet deeply grounded. Moose energy reminds me of the strength to walk at my own pace, to claim space without apology, to balance gentleness with fierce authority.

And the hawk, circling above, sharpens my sight. Hawk offers the perspective I can’t find when my eyes are locked on the ground—inviting me to rise above the noise and glimpse the broader view of my life.

Even the so-called “weeds” carry medicine. I once had a teacher who said that the plants we most need have a way of growing right outside our door—dandelion for resilience, nettle for strength, yarrow for protection. I can’t fully explain it, but I trust the mystery of it. Nature, in all her forms, carries intelligence beyond what I can rationally understand.

Wildness & Integration

Healing, too, is wild work. It doesn’t move in straight lines or tidy steps. It looks more like the forest floor—decay and bloom tangled together, messy and fertile. Integration means welcoming back the parts of ourselves we once exiled: the anger we were taught to suppress, the grief we feared would overwhelm us, the desires we buried, the intuition we ignored.

Wildness shows us resilience not as rigidity but as adaptability. Trees bend in the storm and survive. Rivers change course and still flow. Life integrates contradiction without shame. We can too.

The Sacred Dimension

When I walk in the wild, I remember that I belong. Not in the way of ownership, but in the way of kinship. I am not separate from the living web—I am woven into it. The loneliness that sometimes haunts me falls away when I stand barefoot in the dirt, when I hear the wind threading itself through branches, when I remember that even the rocks are ancient kin.

In our fragmented world, wildness restores wholeness. It grounds us in what is real. It teaches trust: that cycles will turn, storms will pass, seeds will sprout. And it transforms us—not into something other than ourselves, but into our truest selves. This is the heart of The Creatrix: grounding, trust, transformation. Nature herself is our reminder of what we already are.

Closing — Reflection & Practice

So I invite you to pause and ask: Where in my life do I feel untamed or messy, and what wisdom might be waiting there?

And if you’re willing, spend fifteen minutes outdoors this week with no agenda. Let the wild meet you. Notice what mirrors back. Perhaps it will be the sky, or a weed, or a hawk’s shadow overhead. Whatever it is, receive it as a reminder: you are part of the wild, and it is part of you.