But we learned to wear the name with pride.
Weyward, they called us, when we would not submit, would not bend to their will.
It was men who marked us so, in the time when language was but a shoot curling from the earth. We did not need stonemasons to carve our names into rock as proof we had existed.Īll we needed was to be returned to the wild. Instead, the Weyward bones rested in the woods, in the fells, where our flesh fed plants and flowers, where trees wrapped their roots around our skeletons. Our ancestors-the women who walked these paths before us, before there were words for who they were-did not lie in the barren soil of the churchyard, encased in rotting wood. Why the crows-the ones who carry the sign-watch over us and do our bidding, why their touch brings our abilities into sharpest relief. That is why roots and leaves yield so easily under our fingers, to form tonics that bring comfort and healing. I went to New Orleans for the first time for Wild at Heart, and I kept going back to make more movies there. Wild at Heart made a few people angry-they thought I was exploiting women by showing that when a woman says no she really means yes Votes: 4. The animals, the birds, the plants-they let us in, recognizing us as one of their own. A prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages. We can feel it, she said, the same way we feel rage, sorrow, or joy. There was something about us-the Weyward women-that bonded us more tightly with the natural world.
0 kommentar(er)
