Wolves

Ice Heart; photo c Charley Freiberg

 We are animals.

Deep in the dark time of the year, our inner wolves prowl and howl, circle the village, and hunker down to get through the long cold ages. We develop gnawing appetites. We are drawn to bright, face-scalding fires – the bonfire, the woodstove, the fireplace hearth. Even on days brilliant with glittering snowlight, we hurry back to our homes as night falls, as dusk gathers, as the shadows in the corners of rooms grow deeper, and darker, and fill with movement from unseen memories.

We make cocoa. We pop corn. We hover over our bowls of soup and stew, pulling them close to our chests. We tear the fresh loaf apart with our hands. We lick the butter off our fingers. We sniff, deeply, filling the lungs and heart with talismans of succor – the smell of wet wool steaming by the fire, baking bread, roasting apples, toasted grains, yeasted hops; of rising smoke, of winters passed, of ancient memories stored in our bones. We remember those who have gone before us. We speak the names of our dead. We draw the light near; we seek comforting faces; we huddle closer.

Ashes pile up and are scattered; dust lingers in the corners, mingling with the darkness that doesn’t quite reach the borders of the rings of light, mingling with the summer dreams that flickered, and burned out, with the sun. We sing carols. We plan feasts. We light the Yule log. We drink the old year’s last dregs. We settle deeper into our blankets, our scarves, our flannel sheets. We wear fingerless gloves about the house and seek out legwarmers and heavy socks, shawls and scarves.

The wind howls as it pours ‘round the eaves, whistles into cracks and crannies we didn’t know were there. We hear the voices of our long-dead ancestors in its shriek. They call to us. They name us. They toss old stories our way. We dream strange dreams, dreams of childhood, dreams of the Old Ones, dreams that link us to our ancient roots, though we might not know what those are. We taste the tang of bitter and sweet on our lips, on our fingers.

The trees slumber outside. We hear them creak in the cold, in the wind, but they merely shift and settle deeper into their winter dreams. Somewhere, deep below, critters nestle in their roots, roots that reach out and whisper in the dark deep earth, connecting the circles of life. Evergreens rustle in snowfall, dozing through the long nights. Winter birds are silent except in the bright sun, flashing their brilliance, shocking our eyes. Squirrels fluff and scramble.  

Little moves. Rocks turn inward and become silent; rivers no longer spring and spark. The night sky glitters with frost, deepens and extends, until we can see beyond our world, beyond all that we ken. We grow tiny. We grow heavy. We become a pebble in the universe.

I sift my thoughts through my fingers, looking for jewels. Most are heavy and cold, as am I; but here there is a gentle glow, there a passing feeling of warmth.  I lower my head and breathe onto them, blowing gently, hoping to stir an ember.

 A spark jumps from my palm to my eyes; I shut them, quickly, before the fire can die out; I hold the spark carefully, until the breath of my soul teases it into a small flame, which travels into my mind, connects with my heart, and feeds the slumbering wolf in my belly. The wolf rises; the wolf paces, the wolf sets my mind and fingers in motion. I will be inspired until this small flame is spent. I will cherish it until the year turns, the sun rises, the sap moves again.

All about me are prowling wolves, near-hibernating creatures, frosted tips and tails. We curl up near each other; we sometimes snarl. We long for the return of warmth, of scent, of curiosity and desire. But we are animals, and winter has its paw on us. Our ancient minds mistrust the proffered treat; our bodies know, deep in their joints, deep in the blood, deep in the sinews and flesh, that our fortunes can slip through the tiniest of cracks, be blown astray in the smallest of drafts. Our ancestors wait in the shadows, and murmur in our sleeping ears. We grow still. We listen with our tensed beings. We strain to hear the ancient song. We wait. We wait.

We are animals. We live in our ancestor’s dreams. But we know the sun will grow strong again, and we will rise up, and soar.

Originally published December 14, 2016, in the Concord Monitor, as “Season of the Wolf.”