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But The Wild Lives In Me (Rewilding the Human Spirit)

A short film inspired unabashedly by Donnie Vincent's The River's Divide and Who We Are. I'm sure I wasn't alone in my excitement when discovering Donnie Vincent. I felt like there was finally a guy in the hunting industry who understood conservation and the call of the wild and who was able to bring these things to screen beautifully and poetically. In this short video / film I attempt to tackle the philosophical paradox we hunters find ourselves in. As hunters, we stand as the black sheep, stubborn against the rising tide of total domestication. This short film is for anyone who has heard the wild calling them. As a hunter, fisherman and trapper who grew up reading Thoreau, Emerson, Leopold and even Charles Frazier, I can say with certainty that this is a story I have been wanting to tell for a great while. I've also noticed with in the last two years or so that our society seems to be warming back up to the idea of hunting and living off the land. Having grown up in a deer hunting family, my later philosophical readings would prove to only be icing on the cake for my own way of life and raising children. I hope this film encourages people from any and all walks of life to give a more natural way of living life a second thought. Or better yet, maybe it will confirm what he or she has known deep down all along. I don't claim that my way of life is more right than others who think differently. And I do not claim that my way of life is right for everyone. All I know is that being within the wild and participating in the circling cycle of life not only heals me but it rejuvenates my spirit. I really hope, now that celebrities like Joe Rogan and Bryan Callen have started bow hunting and hunting in general, that more people with such strong influences will come out of the shadows and shine a positive light on hunting and speak out about how it's the most ethical way to acquire meat in the modern world. Steven Rinella is another major voice within this movement. Music: bensound.com -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Facebook :   / 348335505290195   Instagram : @zacharybyrd ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Voice Over But the Wild Lives in Me Even as a kid, I always wondered what was beyond the thicket at the edge of the yard or what silent adventures were being had without me in the pines across the road. Before my hands ever spilled their first drops of blood, I yearned to be in the wild. As a quiet observer, a humble student or the wayward son returning home. All would have suited me then. For I knew, toward the thicket I’d always be bound. As sure as migrant wings slant south in a failing winter light. As sure as crickets bring the summer night. We humans age differently than the other animals. Rarely do we feel the earth beneath our feet; Our shoes abandoned for the day ‘longside our worry. Our windows and highways blur too often the fine features of what we once called home. While emails are sent and meetings are held, Those still wild, Think not And live free There’s something to be said about the woods… And how they whisper to those who have learned to listen. A whisper to a child once drenched in mystery Ages along side the young boy or girl Until a day arrives and finds them an adult Worn and tired from human chores, The wind blows no more mystery across their aged face Instead, a homesickness lies heavy on the breeze Tangled in briars Wrapped in honeysuckle, deer dander, solace. The wild to me is a sacred place. A cathedral grown not from a soil of love, But from a soil of indifference. A place where neither blood nor pain is revered as cruel. And the healed and joyous go equally unnoticed. I do not live in the wild But a wild ember glows in me. It is brightened as cool fall winds blow over it Telling me the deer should be on their feet. It is warmed by the restless equinox and by budding flowers That say the bass are near their beds. It is stoked as coyotes cry out to a far off winter moon Their songs sing “Our numbers are great. Go to your traps aging fool” But only is the wild, dim, ember truly ignited when my hands spill blood And a life is set free. It is there, in those heightened brief moments with the fallen that I no longer feel that I intrude. Or that I’ve become some unrecognizable runaway. At the end of the day When the hunt is over And my prey is prepared for well use, I do not envy the creatures still wild- Who wake without worry on limb or within thicket. If anything, I am made aware Made thankful That I, as a man, can leave upon the alter within that great cathedral of indifference, A few offerings very few others can or choose to leave… One offering of thanks, Two offerings of sorrow. I do not live in the wild but the wild lives in me And that has made all the difference.