When I met the wild boar, he showed me with his tusks how to break myself open, how to spill and bleed. Sacred dismemberment, messy, painful and full of lessons that must be studied over a year and a day. “Learn to do it willingly,” he said. “Learn to rip your guts out and tear your heart to pieces. He did not say why. Did not tell me what it would achieve. What we might find there. What good it would do.
I have clutched my hands to my stomach so hard, not wanting to be pulled apart. I have guarded my ribs and avoided what goring I could. There is something unavoidably sexual in the violence of a male tusk invading a female body and I never wanted that brutality, or that femininity. Is it possible to be torn on other terms?
I have been coming to this the wrong way. It is not about how much I am willing to suffer; for art, for love, for Druidry. The quest is for a breakthrough, an opening, but not as wounding or victimhood. No more lessons in pain. To do this to myself, willingly.
Because my guts were where the shame lived, and a lifetime of hurting. Cut that open. Pull it apart. Dig out the vicious shards of barbed wire grafted into tender flesh. Leave the body to heal. Do it willingly. Embrace the sacred wounding and take out what never belonged there. Choose it.
And what of my heart? What happens if I take the tusks to my heart? If I invite them in? A whole country folded inwards, needing to open out. A galaxy of self waiting to be born. The prospect of birthing it as bloody, messy, painful as any birth has ever been.
All of it is terrifying. All of it is too much. All of it is unthinkable. The boar is waiting, because we both know that I have already decided what to do.