Inside there is a wolf and a dog.
They're not in competition, though they can be made to feel that way.
The dog yokes you to civilization, makes it possible to function in shared space with other humans. The wolf yokes you to yourself: Your emotional universe, secret desires and dreams. It is the wild thing that calls you from outside, where the moon is bright and beckoning, and other wolves dwell just beyond the door.
At varying points in life you will be encouraged to starve one to feed the other. Or you might simply care more about one than the other.
But both need feeding: The dog, so you can thrive in community. The wolf, so you can grow unwithered, clear-eyed and discerning. Starve the wolf and you'll spend your life doing things you don't want to do, with people you hate, uncertain where you end and others begin. Starve the dog? You can't be trusted. You will break pacts better kept. You will not love well.
What do we do in compromised times, with the wolf and the dog?
The dog says, "Head down. Stay safe. What matters is staying afloat and the safety of the people around you."
The wolf says, "BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND."
There's a reason myths feature so many hunters drawing wolf-women into their hearths, where the dog sleeps comfortably. Chaos enters an established community: Rules get broken, people get hurt, blood spills, kids run away with the wrong friends or partners.
The introduction of chaos into the status quo is the best way of forcing norms into interrogation. Everything readjusts around what happens next, and a new cosmos is born. This has echoes in many natural systems: For people to thrive, for communities to carry on, stability must occasionally be challenged and its terms renegotiated or simply razed to the forest floor.
Life thrives in detritus, too. What comes next is sometimes more beautiful.
Which brings me back to the question: In compromised times, what, now, do we do about our wolf and our dog?
