Wolf Moon Wandering

As wolves we have wandered among the sheep. (Unknown)

I read that in the 2000^th year of Our Lord, on a t-shirt in a parking lot in Florida. Worn by some holdover from the 90’s grunge era who had yet to evolve. Long hair, flannel tied around his waist. Hand painted letters across his chest. It wasn’t the wearer that got my attention, it was the words. They struck me as if I was standing inside the Liberty Bell at high noon, ringing and reverberating through my chest. Altering me to my core. I felt liberated.

I didn’t understand it at the time, I simply knew it was important.

Now I know.

I saw this yesterday and the same sensation occurred. The truth sounds like music to me, and lies like discord. This sounds like all the choirs of angels. “Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.” (Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Letters to a Young Poet”)

Tomorrow is the Wolf Moon.

I saw that and howled.

Someone explained to me once that we are made of so much water the moon has the power to move the oceans, therefore it must move us too. I concur.
Native Americans called this the Wolf Moon and I must adhere to their wisdom as well. The words of the old ones coming from a long standing connection with the earth and sky. They are my people.

These are not my people…Luke 10:3 Go your ways: behold, I send you forth as lambs among wolves.

Never been terribly fond of sheep, nor do I want to be a shepherd. Mindless things look for ways to fuck themselves up, all rescuing and no reward.

We are warned early and often of wolves in sheep’s clothing, I see nothing to fear in them. I have said before I prefer mine naked and free. But I can always recognize my kind, regardless of guise.
However, those sheep masquerading as wolves, what vile low creatures they be. It means they have skinned a wolf, taken his life to pretend it’s their own. I cannot abide.

Everyone has an animus inside of them, not exactly in the Jungian definition, although that holds true also. More in the Latin root of the word. Spirit, and wrath. Call it a spirit animal, call it instinct and survival, call it wild. Call it whatever you want it’s there. In anyone worth knowing it is there. I can feel it, draw it out, feed it and love it.
In a world that wants men to be civilized sheep I feel it’s my job to nurture them in all their bestial glory. Let his wild out and love him for it. Be wild with him. Beside him.

My women call me WolfMama, there are a few of us, and a few of them.
Pulled in by some gravitational force they howl at me. I feed them, pet them, accept the barking and inevitable bites, bare my throat and my teeth in intervals and show them it’s alright to be them. Then I let them run. They are wolves after all, that is what they do.
My psyche is equally drawn to men with wolves in their chests. But one in particular. My beautifully broken wolf poet.
He came back to me the day 5 planets aligned. Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars and Jupiter. Mine and his on either end with love, wisdom and war in between. Exactly this.

He laughs at me when I speak of the planets like they have some kind of influence. And I let him. I let him do whatever he wishes. This is how I love. I just love, wander if you will, I stay. Steadfast, unwavering, watching the stars and waiting.

When I rescued horses I would turn them into the field. Let them run. Find water and where the hay and shelter was on their own. Sometimes leave them for a day or a few. Watching from safe distance. Both for them and for me. And when it felt right I would grab a pack of smokes, a bottle of water, a thermos of coffee and a book and go sit in the field. Just sit. Leaned up against a tree or a fence post. The other horses knew I had carrots and apples in my pockets and would come take theirs. Sometimes trying to knock me over for my secret stash before getting bored and going on about their horsey days.

Eventually the new one would come, to see what I was. Who is this girl that saw something in them worth saving. Who brought them here just to let them run. Sometimes in the first few minutes, once a few weeks. But I would sit and wait. Become part of the field and wait. I was always rewarded with good horses who trusted me and knew me. I never broke them, I didn’t want to. Free will is paramount. They were with me because they wanted to be.

But what happens when it isn’t a horse. It’s a wolf in man’s clothing, and I wait in the woods for months. Foraging on my own and coming up wanting. What do I bring him?

My patience and flesh apparently. Eventually he will trust. I know I will lose some of myself in the process. It’s alright.

One of my WolfMamas told me to bring whiskey on the full moon. Yes. This.

He wanders and I wait. He apologizes and I tell him it’s alright. I have no other words for him, everything is always alright. I am always right here. I will always choose him over everything and everyone.

The last statement isn’t exactly true. He brings forth all my words, the good ones that drip with honey and sin. But they are his and his alone. As am I.