The Storms that Rage Within

This is Post 7 in the Journey to Truth Series

January 29, 2024:

In the months that followed that prayer, the one where I asked the Divine to help me know and speak my deepest truths, a lot happened.

I finished my 200-hour yoga teacher training, and in the process found my Self and a practice to sustain me. In good times and bad. For the rest of my life.

I found my voice, summoned every scrap of courage I could muster, and spoke my deepest truth. The one where I told him that I’ve spent my entire life around angry men. That I hate myself for being so weak. That I let someone hurt me, and then I just roll out the welcome mat to the next guy to do the same.

The one where I told him that I was done.

I said those things. And I meant them. But here’s the other thing about the truth. The truth, without a plan, leaves you right where you were before you spoke your truth.

So we tried working on our relationship. We set up weekly meetings to talk about the things that mattered. But after a couple of weeks, those meetings fell by the wayside. And slowly, slowly, we slipped back into our usual silence.

So we did what we do best. We ignored the problems, put up a For-Sale sign, and moved back to California. Friends, family, favorite places. Because that, that, would cure all that was wrong. Fix all that ached inside us both.

And for a while it was good. So good to be Home. We busied ourselves by renovating the new home we’d purchased, spent time with family and friends, and celebrated the holidays with a newfound sense of gratitude. And then, once more, we slipped quietly, so quietly, back into the silence.

But on the inside, things were beginning to creak and shift. And once more, the storms that raged within began to toil.

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February 1, 2021:

There is an old woman who lives in a hidden place that everyone knows in their souls but few have ever seen… She calls herself…La Loba.

The sole work of La Loba is the collecting of bones. She collects and preserves especially that which is in danger of being lost to the world. Her cave is filled with bones of all manner of desert creature, but her specialty is wolves.

She creeps and crawls and sifts through the mountains, looking for wolf bones, and when she has assembled an entire skeleton, when the last bone is in place and the beautiful white sculpture of the creature is laid out before her she sits by the fire and thinks about what song she will sing.

And when she is sure, she stands in front of the criatura, raises her arms over it, and sings out. That is when the rib bones and the leg bones of the wolf begin to flesh out and the creature becomes furred. La Loba sings some more, and more of the creature comes into being; it’s tail curls upward, shaggy and strong.

And the wolf creature begins to breathe.

And still La Loba sings so deeply that the floor of the desert shakes, and as she sings, the wolf opens its eyes, leaps up, and runs away down the canyon.

Somewhere in its running…the wolf is suddenly transformed into a laughing woman who runs free toward the horizon.

--excerpted from Women Who Run With the Wolves, pages 23-24

I leave the gym, a little earlier than planned. Drive my car to an unoccupied corner of the parking lot. Roll up the windows. And let it out.

Let out the rage.

It’s been lurking, just beneath the surface. A slow simmer. And now it boils over.

I have no idea why it is here or what the lesson is. It just…hurts.

I scream. Wave my fists in the air. Tears splash down my cheeks, hot and fast, and I scream some more. More and more and more.

It builds and builds until I think I’ll go mad. I hate everyone and everything and I want it to go away.

Just. Fucking. Go. Away.

As I drive home, I pound the steering wheel and scream until my voice is hoarse. And the thing is, I have no idea where these feelings have come from or what they are here to say. I just want to get out of the car and run. Run and run and scream…no, howl, at the hidden moon until I have exorcised this demon.

Until I have set my spirit free.

But todays gift feels like unfinished business. Unfinished secret business, apparently. Or, maybe, I think, this how true (modern day) wild women do it. The cry of the wild. How we exorcise a lifetime of anger. We pound our fists on steering wheels and scream. Not only for ourselves, but for every wild woman who has not yet found the one inside her who longs to be free.

The one who has not yet finished gathering her bones.

As I pull into the driveway, I close my eyes, reach my hand across to the empty passenger seat, and imagine taking Her hand in mine. A moment passes, then another, and then I feel the warmth of her hand in mine.

I’ve got you, she whispers.

I whisper back. I’ve got you, too.

And together we peer up at the sky and howl at the unseen moon.