Much of what we know as wilderness was once
someone’s garden, with pink tea roses and sweet peas 
still springing up among the sprawling vines of wild 
cucumber and poison oak, the downed branches 
of eucalyptus. This bit of woods between two housing 
tracts wouldn’t be here now unless an urban planner 
had charted out the trails, hired landscapers and staff 
to root out invasive plants and monitor the wildlife, 
giving the city folks some green space, recreation trails, 
creating the illusion of wilderness. On these paths, 
boys on flashy mountain bikes nearly mow us down 
each time we stop to watch the deer browsing among 
the trees. My ancestors in Eastern Europe, home 
to dark pine forests inhabited by wolves, would wonder 
at our notion of the wild, would call us soft. But I have 
wild places enough within, dark and uncharted, 
overgrown with moss and lichen, home to tiny 
violets and ancient bristlecones, so wide around 
and high the sunlight barely makes it through. 
The roots are deep. Too deep to ever 
turn into a garden, however I might dig.
                        

Today in yoga practice, I decided it was time 
to face my fear. Before the pandemic, I felt
solid, like a young oak, doing headstand 
in the middle of the room. I’d balance on 
my forearms without a qualm. I don’t 
know why I stopped; falling didn’t hurt. 
I fell straight backwards, flat on my back, 
didn’t bang my head or even get a bruise. 
Yet I soon retreated to the wall, convinced 
myself some things aren’t possible. It took me 
decades to learn to drive and take the test. 
I’m still afraid of freeways, but who could 
blame me? I didn’t really try to get back on 
my head without the wall. Fear had become 
so comfortable, a habit. Breaking it 
was just too hard. 

Breaking the habit was just too hard. 
Without the wall, I didn’t really try at all 
to get back on my head. But who could 
blame me? I’m still afraid of freeways. 
It took me decades to learn to drive 
and take the test. I convinced myself 
some things aren’t possible, retreated 
to the wall, although I didn’t bang my head 
or even get a bruise, just fell backwards. 
Falling didn’t hurt. I don’t know why 
I stopped. Before the pandemic, I was 
like a young oak, balancing on my forearms 
without a qualm in the middle of the room. 
But today might be the day I face my fears 
in yoga practice.