Howl

GENERAL WOLF RULES FOR LIFE*

  1. Eat
  2. Rest
  3. Rove in between
  4. Render loyalty
  5. Love the children
  6. Cavil in moonlight
  7. Tune your ears
  8. Attend to the bones
  9. Make love
  10. Howl often

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I think it was two Fridays ago. Yeah, that was it.

Well, okay, maybe there were another handful of intimate, breath-upon-breath moments where her ears unfurled and a bone song slithered its way up and out of her throat.

But Friday sticks out in my mind because it felt like a perfect mating dance, a ritual stalking and pouncing and cavorting within a pack of others; our eyes narrowing and then widening to golden, glowing orbs. I felt my hair stand on end, sensing that which was yet to come, that which lurks in corners and can be both predator and prey.

Two weeks ago is when my Wild Woman, my Wolf, last howled.
******************************************************************************
AT: A friend’s birthday party at a club.
WITH: A husband who’d never really ventured out into such places of debauchery and dance.
HAD: A wolverine body – ready to leave her pups tucked into the den – waiting to dash madly with her lover into the darkness, yelping and watching and paying homage to moon.

ME: “Seriously, are you SURE? Like ‘SURE, sure’.  Cuz it’s not a Halloween party ya know…” <us women know what ‘SURE sure’ means>

HIM:  “Um, YES.  SURE, sure” <camera flash sparks>

ME (pulling skirt further down to try and cover): “I mean, I DO have fishnets on and knee high boots so I’m not REALLY showing much skin.  Right?”

HIM (eyeing up and down, voice cracking, smile curling): “Ummm, well, yeah.  And you have a hat on. Yeah, totally, it is perfect.”

ME:  “Crap the hat.  Over accessorized, right? And it’s not like I’m showing cleavage at least.   Unless thighs count….”

HIM: “Exactly.  Your shoulders.  I love your shoulders.  And you need to show your legs off more”

ME:  “Ugh, I’m 32, for chrissakes, with 2 kids.   I have no business…

<Wolf starts to howl>

ME: “Let’s just go.  Let’s do it before I change my mind”

ME (click clack click clack of heels, feeling calves stretched and strong): “Hell…I guess I don’t look ALL that bad, right? Surely there will be sluttier outfits there.  Right?”

HIM, much later at the dance club:  “Yeah, she’s got you beat”

ME (turning head towards dance cage as I come out of my gangsta face lip scrunch and bootie shakin’): “Yeah, thanks honey.  She’s wearing THONG BOY SHORTS as pants”

******************************************************************************

Really, it was fun. Hella fun to break out of my yoga pants and crusty oatmeal t-shirts.   Watching my Wild Women pack roam and bump-n-grind to beats dripping with the hormones of my 20’s was liberating.   Having my husband there to hold me on his arm and laugh as I did a terrible dance number in heels and lip-sync’d to Footloose was priceless.

And with a few gulps of cheap wine spritzer in us, my Wolf was born.  Reborn and nimble.  Kate may say it was my Varga girl even (funny that I chose the goddess Diana – who walks with wolves – as mine).

On the dance floor, in the darkened room atop a barstool seeing the sparkle again in his eyes, in those moments that I didn’t care of my skirt was a wee – er, lot – bit too short.  The dance cage did call, I’m just sayin’.  But, I had already broken free, no need to step back in.

It was there that she snarled and ran cackling towards the horizon, casting off layers and fears.   Coyote felt right, suited smack in the middle of the desert.  She was at home in this tufted boy, able to stare other wolves in the eyes with fire and understanding and say “Yes”. And she left no trace (um, other than the photos).  That, my Wild Women, is the most delicious part.

******************************************************************************               From a book that has called to me via other Wild Women twice, finally gifted over the holidays:

“We dream of the archetype of Wild Woman, we dream of reunion.  And we are born and reborn night after night from this same wild dream, and we return to daylight grasping a coarse hair, the soles of our feet black with damp earth, our hair smelling like ocean, or forest or cook fire.

We women are building a motherland.  This world is being made from our lives, our cries, our laughter, our bones.   It is a world worth making, a world worth living in, a world in which there is a prevailing and decent wild sanity.

To live as closely as possible to the numinous wild a woman must do more head tossing, more brimming, have more sniffing intuition, more creative life, more get-down-dirty, more solitude, more women’s company, more natural life, more fire, more cooking of words and ideas.  More terrorist sewing circles, and more howling.  Much more ‘canto hondo’, much more deep song”.

*The book: “Women Who Run With the Wolves, Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype” by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

The taste: Devilishly divine.  Like a chocolate drumstick cone, perfect at each bite with the juxtaposition of smooth ice cream, crunchy waffle cone, sweet dark chocolate, and salty peanuts.   You get all the goodness in one bite.  And you keep going back for more.

The book brings me to the brink of both tears and guffaws in a single sentence, kinda like your soul lover can only do.   A must-read for all women.  Because we are all THAT wild.

And yes, I am “SURE sure” that we are all also THAT hot.

When did your Wolf last howl?

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