A Primal Place
There is a dark, primal place in everyone. It is a place where we store our animal instincts, our violent impulses, and our reservoirs of strength. This place remains largely hidden behind social conventions and buried under the bland pleasantries of everyday life. But when we need to tap into that place it is there. And sometimes, when we aren’t prepared for it, that dark space comes roaring to the surface.
I was caught unawares today.
When you live in Oklahoma it’s just smart to keep a weather eye open all the time. And I’m not just talking about being aware of one’s surroundings. No, I mean actually paying attention to the weather. Listen to the radio, check online, watch the news. And that’s just what I was doing, watching the news. But not really paying too much heed until the weather forecast started. Until an unfortunately familiar story caught at the edges of my consciousness.
A tragedy struck, in a tiny town south of here, the day after my birthday. Two young girls, walking a well-traveled and familiar route, were shot and killed with no apparent motive. There is something on the news almost nightly, as no suspect has yet been identified. I paid attention long enough to find that the situation had not changed, then went back to my book or computer or whatever else I was doing. Pumpkin was sitting on the back of the couch, brushing my hair. I was further distracted by the almost rhythmic beat of brush bristles on my scalp.
Today they released the taped 911 call one of the girls’ grandmother made when she found them. Law enforcement is hoping to flush out more leads with this release. It was horrific. I read along with the transcript as I listened, now fully alert. She cried and screamed, the last thing on the tape was, “My babies!” It was a howl of grief and rage torn from that primal space at the very pit of the soul.
Then the strangest thing happened. A second howl rose to match the one on the tape, echoing in the room. I realized that the howl was mine just as great barking sobs were torn from my chest, filling my mouth. The wordless anger and sorrow escaping my mouth in howls, barks, and roars would have been familiar to my earliest ancestresses, the ones barely more than dumb animals, the cave-painters, the gatherers.
At that moment, I was the mother wolf howling, in sympathetic outrage, with her pack; I was the mother bear roaring to protect her cubs. And then I felt one of my own little cubs, still tap-tap-tapping on my head with her brush. I leaned into her and she hugged my head; and I heard my other, bigger cub playing noisily in his room. Through the left-over tears, I told her I loved her and received one big, gooey, suction-y kiss.
I know this, if there is any mother out there shielding this crime, who is not moved to action by that grandmother’s howl, then she is not of my pack.
