It Would Delight Me…
A celebration of the enchantment of joy
It would delight me to wake up one June morning and find the strawberries in my patch ripe and red. To pick one off the plant and bite into it, dew and juice on my tongue, the slightest hint of warmth in its flesh, a harbinger of the hot summer day that’s about to blossom. It would delight me to pick a handful of these, take them inside and cover them with freshly whipped cream and a hint of sugar. To feel that tartness and creaminess collide in my mouth.
It would delight me to feel someone’s hand slide over my hip, the pressure of being pulled back against someone’s warm body when I wake in the middle of the night from a fitful sleep. To feel their breath on my neck, their insistence that my inner demons find another place to frolic. Not our bed. Not tonight.
It would delight me to sip my Earl Grey tea with just the right creamer — one I haven’t yet found — and a heaping teaspoon of raw honey while sitting in front of a crackling fire in a stone fireplace with a furry blanket wrapped around me. To see the evergreens lined up like soldiers outside the window, the shadow of a great horned owl in their branches.
It would delight me to slide naked into a hot spring, feeling the water against my skin, letting it turn my breasts into round buoys. To listen to the wind whisper in the trees and to imagine no one on the earth except for me and the wild creatures of the woods.
It would delight me to visit Paris again, this time only to eat pastries by the Seine, lounge in the shadow of my beloved Notre Dame, hold hands, and rock naked and sweaty across the bed, my legs wide open, and the window, too.
It would delight me to be able to finish arranging my house — those tiny little details that two years later, are still undone. To buy a new bed with a beautiful wooden headboard, to update the furniture, finish outfitting my office space, build shelves in the garage for all the lumber this self-sufficient, badass, single woman homeowner has acquired, and…figure out how to fix the pantry, once and for all.
It would delight me to meet someone who makes my stomach flip, who draws sparks from the tips of my fingers. It would delight me if somehow — somehow — we both liked each other in the same moment, when we were both free to do so. If somehow — somehow — we both wanted similar things, similar lives, similar promises. It would delight me to finally pause, take a deep breath, strip off all my clothes, and just fall into bed without a care in the world. To watch the sun crawl over his (or her) body as the day passed by. To hear the owls hooting outside in encouragement, in celebration.
It would delight me to have every single man who reads and encourages my smutty sexual articles to also read and encourage my feminist writings. To celebrate my sexuality and my anger. To hold a space for all of it, knowing it is all connected. To protect me and other women with their compassion and strength the way I try so hard to protect them and celebrate their wholeness.
It would delight me to see a fox in the wild, up close, the way I have seen so many coyotes. To spend more time in the woods, listening to the birds and learning all the names of the plants that cross my path. To take off all my clothes and sit on a warm rock and let the sun touch every part of my body. To feel like the wild animal I am.
It would delight me to burrow further into my bed for another half hour each morning, without any guilt or worry about the things I’m not getting done.
It would delight me to walk barefoot on the grass more often, perceiving the thrum of the earth’s energy through the soles of my feet.
It would delight me to wipe more melted butter off my chin. Or chocolate. Or cheese.
It would delight me to receive an orgasm from someone who cherishes me.
It would delight me to take a long hike in the spring, to relax into my hips with a deep Warrior II, to ride through ten miles of trees on my old, heavy dirt bike.
It would delight me to wake up every single day and whisper, “Yes.”
Inspired by herbalist Sophia Rose.
© Yael Wolfe 2020
