WILD TALEWORT HAS MOVED TO http://www.wildtalewort.net! Please come visit us there!
Wild Talewort is the locus of ecology and myth-based tale-weaving by writer & artist Sylvia Victor Linsteadt. This includes the Wild Tales by Mail Project the Gray Fox Epistles, and its branch for younger readers, the Leveret Letters. Wild Talewort is also a sharing-space—a communal pot of healing nettles stirred by very wise river otters, as it were—of thoughts, articles, inspirations and old myths that engage this deep-webbed union between the ecologies of wildness on the land around us and in our myth-made hearts.
Stories are medicine, and strongest when wild, like plants and animals. When a nettle grows wild in the wet soil near alders and a creek, in green-spined thickets of nourishing and fierce leaves, they are made of their own will. They are made also of the will of the alder, the phoebe who shat out their seeds, the young doe who carried them at her ankles. The nettles therefore have absorbed the medicine of the creek made by rain and the topographies of time & earth, the alders who fill the soil with nitrogen-dreams, the deer who pass and drink, the bobcats who brush past at dawn, the black-coated phoebes who dart and eat bugs off the water. Only a wild plant grown in tangled interdependent, fierce community can have this particular sort of medicine—the medicine of a living place.
Stories are wild when they come from the part of the mind that the Baba Yaga stalks in her house of gray fox bones on great blue heron feet through old fir forests thick with primordial elk right off the cave-walls of the Paleolithic. Stories are wild when they come from the part of us that is that dark firwood we don’t always know the way out of, and it scares us. In that place of tree roots, owls, silver mycelia, we glimpse the evolution of our own bones out of primeval oceans and the bodies of primordial amphibians, and it shakes us further, until we see we are made also of stardust and planetary mineral. Stories are wild when they place us back in the family of things, back in the family of plants, mammals, birds, reptiles, fungi, bacteria and air. And when they show us that our heart is its own watershed, many-streamed.
WILD—(of an animal or plant) living or growing in the natural environment; not domesticated or cultivated
TALE— a fictitious or true narrative or story, especially one that is imaginatively recounted
WORT—a plant, generally medicinal, often used in combination, as in motherwort, mugwort, liverwort
These are words with old native roots in the soil of primeval English, the language into which I was born and raised, the language whose mycelial fibers and taproots I follow and map each time I create and write a story from the wild place in my mind, the place in the firwood, the place where the healing nettles grow. Wilde, from Old English, of Germanic root. Talu, from Old English, of Germanic root. Wyrt, from Old English, of Germanic root, and, as an aside, related to that very word, root.
May the healing of wild stories take root in our feral imaginations. It is my hope that the work and offerings here help to foster that uncultivated, undomesticated space in all of our minds, our hearts, making us better caretakers of the families of plants, animals and weather systems that share our backyards, making us better dreamers of the songs the land is humming below us all the time, no matter if we live on urban streets or in the open coyote-chorused hills.