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  • Writer's pictureAram Mitchell

I write

I like to consider moments and search in them for wild elements. I look for fire, water, earth, and air. It’s all here with me now. I am here with it all. There is a breeze coming through the window above where I write at a desk in the basement. All the wild elements are alive in this moment.

I write. Even that sentence holds enough of a moment to find wildness. The firing of synapse in my brain pushes to the page by way of my muscled fingers fueled by the blood of my body that is nourished and cleansed by my breath.

Try it. I take a sip of coffee. The steam, from the liquid that is tinged with taste and color from the seed of a berry grown in some soil and roasted by fire, wafts into my face when I suck at the glazed rim of the mug made of flame-hardened clay.

Now cast your gaze out beyond yourself. Consider who might read the words you’re writing. Where are they in relation to a window or a cup of coffee and each of the elements of wildness? Consider, with gratitude and curiosity, who might have tended the bush and harvested the red berries with their own muscled fingers?

I draw inspiration from the relational glue that welds wild elements together and crafts from them moments of life. Before the day is over I aim to do something with this awareness, to turn inspiration to action. I aim to be, myself, a constellation of wildness that contributes to life.

But first: I write, and I take a sip of coffee.

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