Knock, knock?

Another rainy day, and dawn is slow this morning. Animaswolf lifts her nose to the air, ears pricked forward, and waits to see what her senses tell her about the day to come. She hears the faint sounds of yipping and howling – but it is in the distance. She stands, stretches – assuming the pose that humans call downward facing dog. Shaking her fur, she trots down to the small creek that flows through the bottom of this canyon and ears still pricked forward she drinks. She sits quietly, watching the water flow, listening to the light drizzle, waiting for the clouds and mist to pass. She is used to waiting.

Eventually, the sun appears over the mesa top. She knows that soon the rocks will be warm and by then the transformation to wild woman will be complete. By day she is a human woman and by night she travels as a wolf. It is during the liminal times – dawn and dusk – that she feels most alive. When she is standing on the sensory threshold that separates wolf knowing from woman knowing there is a brief time of possessing both.

For many years she has traveled as a lone wolf – a pack of one. The past year has brought opportunities to join packs and leave packs and still she searches. She trots these canyon floors looking for signs of her pack. At night she howls and listens for a response – remembering some ancient pattern of “call and response.” Perhaps today will be the day when her call is heard and her pack answers.

By day she lives in the topside world of carpools and trackmeets – dinner parties and picnics – bill paying and housecleaning. It is a good life, one finely crafted and durable - filled with security and certainty with just enough of an edge to keep her alert. But she has a secret – and she is ready to share this secret. Perhaps it isn’t so much of a secret as a hidden gift. David Whyte talks about vows – and she made a vow – with boulders and grandmother trees as her witness.

Remember,
in this place
no one can hear you

and out of the silence
you can make a promise
it will kill you to break,

that way you’ll find
what is real and what is not.

~~David Whyte

The time is upon her to honor these vows, to reveal the hidden gifts, and to share the secret. She has known this for several months – yet she still struggles with the delivery system. Each attempt at sharing falls short. She no longer feels despair because she is sure that all these failures are part of the rich humus that will nurture the seeds for this next cycle of growth.

Invisible hands guide her to the door step of the Soul Food Café. The lights are on and delicious aromas are wafting out the open door. She hears laughter, and the tinkling of glassware. Who are these people? What are they doing here? Why am I here? What is the allure? She wanders in, and someone hands her a cup of tea. She doesn’t remember drinking it, her head is filled with words and images and ideas and dare she hope – a sense of community. Perhaps this is her pack?

OK – the more she wanders around, she finds the Heroine’s Journey and then takes a trip to her dear, dear, friend and mentor the Baba Yaga. She is now firmly convinced that she wants to be here, inside, where it is warm and the fire is roaring, the kitchen is singing, and the words are flowing. But she is a bit disoriented. She can’t find the entrance door and each door leads her farther and deeper into this place of wonder. She stumbles across signs that lead to a gold mine – but she can’t find the mine. Perspiring now – her pace quickens, clicking here and there, getting a bit frantic, trying to find her way in, she decides to send an email to someone by the name of Heather.

Soon her inbox is under the spell of Enchanteur. Now the room is spinning, up is down, and here is there and her son and husband return to a cold kitchen. She rushes topside, creates dinner for a gaggle of teenagers and her mate, gets them settled in and rushes back to this mysterious world.

She is sure she is through the door, she crossed the threshold, passed the angels and demons who guard the gate, and in front of her she sees the Lemurian Vista.

Soulwright