Last year, I made the trip across Ohio to attend the Second Annual Eastern Woodland Native American Gathering and Pre-1840 Encampment. Admittedly, I had a distinct focus on the former. It distinguishes itself from a pow-wow because they don’t dance competitively. The year before, people had looked up to see a pair of bald eagles in the sky, seeming to join in to dance with them. I made the trip almost like an animist pilgrimage, looking for some kind of profound experience like that. I danced with them, though to my shame, my much-abused body wouldn’t take so much activity and I left the circle early. An announcement came later, asking people not to do that. I think they meant me.

In my desk, I keep a piece of the Blarney stone. Well, if you read the fine print, it admits that it really just comes from the local bluestone, though the legends of the Blarney stone say it didn’t even come from there. As befits such a stone, contradictory legends give it mutually exclusive but equally fantastic origins, whether from the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny on the Hill of Tara, or half of the original Stone of Scone, or hoisted from the walls of Jerusalem in the Crusades, or the pillow of the Biblical patriarch Jacob, and brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremaiah. Why such a storied and powerful stone would end up, without any apparent honor or recognition, in the walls of a local lord’s castle, these stories do not say. But they do say that anyone who kisses the stone will have “the gift of gab.”

It gets lonely for rewilding folk out there. You can’t even discuss the things you hold dear, because more often than not, the people around you will consider you “eccentric” at best, and insane at worst. It can become deeply alienating. Even the most ardent person will feel doubt, even shame, beginning to take over. Great things happen when people with similar perspectives meet. I’ve seen the energy of that rare affirmation before. Such people can build off of each other’s energy, and start something really great. In exile, we’ve found ourselves with very few people we can really talk to. We want to help foster a local rewilding “scene,” a local network for sharing skills, ideas, and perspectives. If you live in the Allegheny, Monongahela, or Upper Ohio watersheds, please consider joining the Rewild Pittsburgh group I started on Facebook. From there, I hope we can expand and do more, but first, we need to find each other!

In “reading” these words, do you say anything? More likely, you read silently—or more accurately, subvocalize. Like microexpressions, reading, like emotion, still inheres to movement of the human body. It cannot take place solely in an incorporeal “mind,” our fantasies of such aside. We can fool ourselves into that notion only because we’ve reduced the motions involved to the most fleeting versions, giving the superficial impression that they barely happen at all.

William Golding’s classic novel, The Lord of the Flies, paints a grim portrait of human nature, illustrating how, without the constraint of civilization, we descend into savagery. Yet, in the end, the mere presence of an adult brings the chaos to an immediate end. So, ignoring for the moment how we can draw conclusions about human nature from a work of fiction, does this really tell us about human nature, or a world where we suddenly find our elders disappeared, and our traditions broken?