The girl peruses this strange assembly, her various scattered pieces. She sways to the promise of a Beetles love song “Call on me and I’ll send it along with love.”
The wolf looks back and sees her strangely disassembled state and wants no part of it. Off he trots to be with his pack and howl at the moon and do his nocturnal dance.
Meanwhile this girl sits, ankles crossed demurely, and hopes some day to be rescued. But she knows not who or how or when or whether she will even like him/it! Her cracked image stares back at her from the mirror.
Guess what I’ve been rereading lately? Women Who Run With the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes – and in the process remembering the young girl I was – at least some of the time. Ah, those last years at home under the parents’ roof with all that wild energy brewing . . .
We have one son left at home, restless and on the brink of flying the coop. My husband can relate better than I to the guy version of this. I can’t avoid playing my own old memories of that time in my life, mining them for touches of wisdom to impart or at least for my own sake. After all I’ll still learning how to call my wolf to me.