I travelled back a long distance today: past sunflowers that only raised their heavy heads in the golden hour, listening attentively to the sun set, lined up in disciplined rows.
To the right and left were cornfields, ears bent into the shape of origami swans.
The road also took us through a forest, and if you must travel through the forest by car, drive slowly, and let your hand drift out the window; notice how the wind pets your hand, and the depth of the shadows.
All of the nature we saw was half cultivated, but a tiny bit wild - like that forest with dizzyingly steep drops that were still populated by trees. It reminded me of this very nubby slub yarn a shopkeeper pawned off on me that has been such a challenge to knit. Yes it can be knit, and tamed, but knowledge is needed to overcome its wild side, which will not reveal the work of most knitting patterns: the twists and knots get lost in the nubbiness. (I found the suggestion in this post's comments most helpful.)
As much as one may feel drawn to order, to knitting everything into place, the wild plays a critical role in all that shaping. It is the wild that spurs one on to discover new folding and knotting techniques - to sort out the slub of life. The wild is the nursery of ideas: the field is the day-to-day sustenance. Rare are those human beings who can subsist naturally in nature, who have the peace of mind and body to live off the fruits of the earth as they appear, without hoarding or wanting to control little patches of it. I write this because I think it is important for a person to be honest with themselves: we may all wish to be truly spontaneous and trusting of life, but it is one thing to wish for that and another to live it every day, for an extended period of time.
We pay a price to live in society, full of its areas of cultivation - some harmonious with nature, though some diametrically opposed . We agree to coexist with the laws of the "cult" in culture. Aside from that are the laws we impose on our own lives, the laws that trickle in - through culture, or through our affinities or habits, and these laws can keep us from the slub of life. We learn to make origami swan garlands for our homes, but not to open our eyes to the few night stars we can see from the city and dream of the universe and what it means to be alive.
The "wild" is that moment of fear - the dizzying depth of "perhaps I've got it wrong"; the nub of a bump in the road caused by false expectations. So much unhappiness is caused by wanting to fold life into the way we preconceived it. The true art comes from accepting the situation for what it is, nub and all, and learning a new stitch to make it all right again. We may not be those true spiritual warriors, living harmoniously with the birds and the beasts in the forests, like the great saints and some Chinese sages have done before us, but at least we will be making space in our lives for the great unknown, which may be trying, most lovingly, to fold us into its magnificent tapestry, more beautiful than our little minds can imagine.