Homily of the Wild Call

Homily of the Wild Call

For Those Who Remember the Forest Within

Beloved souls,

Come, step beyond the walls a while.
Leave behind the noise, the glow, the screens that tell you who to be.
There is another voice calling — softer, older, patient as moss.
You can only hear it when you stop trying to be heard.

It is the Call of the Wild.
Not the chaos of beasts, but the harmony of being —
the way wind knows how to sing through pine,
the way rivers carve paths without asking permission.

We’ve spent so long trying to make the world ours —
owning, shaping, naming, building —
that we’ve forgotten we belong to it.
The truth is simpler: we are not meant to outlast the earth;
we are meant to feed it, and be fed by it.

Demeter teaches this in every dying field —
that even what falls returns as food for what comes next.
Every leaf that drops is a hymn of gratitude,
every death a promise of renewal.

Pan calls from the wild places we’ve paved over.
He does not ask us to worship him —
only to remember him.
To walk barefoot again.
To let the body breathe.
To listen to the heartbeat of the soil and say, “I am not separate.”

Hestia waits at the hearth of the world,
reminding us that even the fire we build comes from trees once living.
She teaches reverence — to tend, not to take.

And Dionysus — ever the revealer —
he breaks the illusion of control.
He teaches impermanence through ecstasy:
that joy is not in holding on, but in dissolving into the moment,
becoming one with what is.

We spend our days trying to leave something behind,
to build a legacy, to be remembered.
But the wild does not remember names —
it remembers songs.
And when your body returns to the soil,
your song will feed the roots of something beautiful.
That is enough.

So let go of the need to endure.
Let go of the dream of permanence.
Be the breath that moves through the trees,
the laughter that ripples across a stream.
Feed the earth with your living —
and let it feed you with its dying.

Because the wild does not promise eternity —
it promises continuance.
And in that endless exchange —
of giving, receiving, decaying, becoming —
we find the only kind of immortality that ever mattered:
to live in rhythm with life itself.

So answer the wild call, beloved souls.
Lay your hands on the ground.
Feel it pulse beneath you.
That is the heart you were born from,
and the one you will return to.

Not to own.
Not to last.
But to belong.

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