worlds within worlds

wolves, tall grass & cosmopoetic ripples

Hello dear readers out there — Here is a wander into our imaginative origins, as a wildly creative species on Earth. From the iridescent worlds in a dog’s eyelashes to the lineages of moons reflected in one moon’s face: Thank you for walking with me on the heart path… even when the path becomes a rabbit hole into the starry abyss.

A few months ago I was in a dark and creaky used book store in Albuquerque, the sort of place where mystical journeys begin. Tucked into the bottom shelf was a small book entitled “The Hidden Heart of the Cosmos” by cosmologist Brian Swimme. It was one of those fateful used book store moments that felt as though the entire universe had conspired to get this tattered little book into my hands. It cost $6.

In exploring Brian Swimme’s fascinating work on the origins of the universe, I discovered the word cosmopoetic (spelled “-poietic” in its Greek origins). I was instantly obsessed with the word. Cosmo- meaning world, universe, harmony. The mysterious order and harmony of the universe that allows it to function in the impossibly perfect way that it does. Poiesis- the process of bringing something into form. The emergence of something that did not previously exist. Of weaving the unseen into being, mystery into matter. Poetry.

from The Hidden Heart of the Cosmos by Brian Swimme

Cosmopoetic: world-creating. To weave the world into being, through the creative microcosm of our own existence. Isn’t a new birth taking place anytime we cook a meal, say something utterly true, or greet a wild other with our curiosity? Otherworlds are all around us, and are brought to life through our deciphering of their messages. As poet David Whyte says, "treat everything as though it is about to reveal something to you.” This is how we become a walking ecological gift, nurturing more biodiversity expression on Earth through our embodied participation.

Rumi capturing the essence of cosmopoiesis. (tr. Coleman Barks)

Humans, like soil, wolves and starlight, are cosmopoets. And there are many ways we can practice sharpening our cosmopoetic skills. Last year I was camping with a group in the high desert, and our guides gave us the invitation to more or less roll around in the grass for twenty minutes. Their instructions drew from that beloved Mary Oliver line, to go onto the land and “let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” It was a practice in deciphering the subtle, instinctual whispers of soul. And so the twelve of us slowly dispersed out into a tall grass meadow. One of the guides began to play a drum.

It was harder than it sounds to hear the deeper current of longing within me, beneath the rushing mind. Intellectually, I know exactly what I’m drawn to and the kinds of beauty I love. But we are far more mysterious than a list of likes and dislikes, far freer than our material possessions or our neatly composed personality. The more fixed we become to our identity, the less room we leave for the world to create through us— to change us into who we really are. I long to see humans remember ourselves as mystical cosmopoets in constant flux with the moon, the howling canyon winds, the old stones dissolving into soil. Even if it scares me, I give myself to this instinctual, messy, co-creative dance. Because the wild world keeps showing me that beauty is a force that moves.

from her journals, a line that caught my heart

In order to let my instinct guide me, my mind had to first surrender to the hidden part of me who, even after all these years, had refused to be domesticated, who was free and untamable, tidal and unstoppably phasing like the moon. It is there inside all of us, still alive and whispering incantations of our most feral dreams. It is soul.

And so there in the grassy meadow I found myself face down on the ground, studying exactly how each tuft of grass had risen from darkness and become bleached rays of light. I felt strangely at home down there, and in love with that warm, intricate world. Suddenly I felt a ravenous, inexplicable hunger to taste the sweet clay soil. Without thinking, I licked the ground. I smiled as though I had just been told the world’s best secret. It was delicious.

I learned something important about myself, about being alive. Something like, the part of me that is utterly curious and unpredictable is the part that brings me the most joy. An instinctual joy that reaches beyond any human definition of joy. It was the joy of belonging to Earth. In that moment in the tall grass, ripples upon ripples of tenderness flowed down into soil and out into the cosmos. A luminous new world was born from that simple embrace.

words spoken by our guide, named Lovestorying, when we returned from our time in the meadow.

New worlds are constantly created through each choice we make. The concept of worlds within worlds became a compass I carry for when I get lost, and I often whisper the words out loud like a koan. From the starry firmament of dissolving dark soil beneath our feet to the mind-boggling vastness of space, everything is unfolding at once and the possibilities for our participation are endless. Nothing gets me out of personal and planetary despair as quickly as that thought. To contemplate the endless creativity of the universe is to become as creative as the stars themselves. Our imagination is the original genetrix of planetary flourishing. We are here to be curious.

Rebecca Elson, astronomer and poet

How we interact with our own multitudes directly affects the further flourishing of biodiverse life expressions on Earth and beyond. We must be willing to examine the sort of worlds we are creating through each choice we make. It might sound like a heavy responsibility, to be so highly interconnected that our actions are constantly affecting others. But as I have learned from spending so much time with trees, rivers, the moon, and many different kinds of animals, this level of interdependence is what leads to the greatest joy and freedom that exists.

Our human lives are often built on hard definitions of self and other, and a whole pantheon of socially constructed rules about how we get to exist here. Some of it is necessary for survival, but much of it blocks us from true intimacy and connection with this world. How might we begin to stretch beyond these limitations, so that we can interact more freely with the otherworlds around us? The answer is simple, and it is also the task of a lifetime: we have to start breaking our own rules.

wolf kisses & breaking the rules: where the two worlds touch

even in captivity,
one can see in the eyes of a woman,
or a wolf,
the longing to run free,
and the determination
that should the opportunity arise,
whoosh,
they will be gone…

(Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves)

I have been camping alone in the wild, yes as a woman, for around twenty years now. It is not just that I enjoy it — it is an actual need within me. Like food and oxygen, my aliveness is sourced directly from the freedom I feel when alone on the land. Some people don’t understand it, and I am often asked incredulously, “Aren’t you scared??” or given the wary command “Be careful.” They say it from a place of genuine concern, but something about it ignites a particular burning glint in my eyes. I feel myself flex invisible claws most of the world cannot see.

“Axis Mundi” by Lucy Campbell

I have certainly experienced fear while camping alone (mainly of the two-legged species). But being too careful in my life, too cautious, has gotten me into way more trouble than camping alone ever has. By trouble I mean it led to a version of me who was compliant, polite, and terrified of upsetting anyone. Domesticated, civilized, obedient. Over time we formulate a specific, self-designed set of rules for how to be loved and accepted by other humans. This habitual tampering of our deepest longings is how we gradually become utterly predictable, unsatisfied with our existence, and disconnected from the instinctual electric currents of our wild ecosystems.

The human hyper-domestication of Self feels a bit like our survival instincts gone haywire. Being utterly predictable is like holding yourself in captivity, and is also perhaps the surest way to get yourself eaten alive. In the wild, although there are constant patterns and cycles in place, everything is dependent on creative spontaneity in order to survive. In the case of humans, our level of complacency and curated sameness feels like having our souls devoured by a systemic denial of our instincts. This is why we feel so lonely and disconnected from each other and the wild lands. Our spontaneous, whole-bodied participation is needed in order to resurrect our ecological belonging.

my heart creating its own dream worlds through forest tents and solitude with coyote song.

A couple of weekends ago I drove across the desert to visit a wolf sanctuary. I camped alone in the forest nearby, and could hear the wolves and wolfdogs howling every hour or so all night long. While at the sanctuary, I got to meet dozens of the wild canids in residence there. The human who was introducing me to these beings was in intimate relationship with all of them, and was able to tell me their individual stories as well as describe each of their individual personalities.

The canids at the sanctuary are wolves as well as mid and high content wolfdogs — meaning they have mostly wolf DNA with a smaller percentage of domesticated dog genetics (…where the two worlds touch). I was surrounded by highly wolfy energy, saturated in a healing symphony of unbridled howls and growls. Golden eyes gleamed at me through chainlink fence. Sharp teeth collided with mine, as I received the unthinkable honor of wolf kisses (it is considered quite rude in wolf culture to not let someone lick your teeth).

Inside the enclosures with them was another world… one that belonged to them. Some bravely approached me only for a brief sniff before darting behind a tree to watch me. Some walked right up to me with laser beam eye contact and licked my face, or “scent rubbed” me, which is a wolf hug. There were some who had no desire for human affection (a trait difficult for humans to grasp). There were also quite a few I wasn’t able to meet inside their enclosures, and there was a reason for that.

“He’s unpredictable,” the caretaker told me, as a huge black wolf gazed at me through the fence.

He had no dog genetics at at all, only wolf, and looked as though he had just emerged from one of the packs in Yellowstone. I smiled at him gently and saw lightning flash across his eyes. He was intensely aware of every single thing around him, smelling and hearing layered intricacies of worlds imperceptible to me. His caretaker said quietly, “He has the most beautiful howl of all.”

The most beautiful howl. I felt tears in my eyes as I caught that glimmer of the black wolf’s soul.

The great powers are testing to see if humans
have yet learned to recognize the greatness
of soul in all its varying forms.

(Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes)

The word unpredictable was used to describe many other wolfdogs at the sanctuary, and the most unpredictable ones were the pens I was not able to enter. But I learned that unpredictable does not necessarily mean they are dangerous or aggressive — the word simply explains how unlikely a wild animal is to conform to human social norms. And I love them madly for it.

I have a deep admiration for the unruly spirit, which might be why I gravitate toward wolves as well as stray and feral dogs. A friend once said to me, “Your dogs aren’t very obedient.” I don’t think she meant it as a compliment, but it made me feel as though I had wildly succeeded at being human. All animals, domesticated or not, are unbreakably interconnected with untamable worlds we cannot see, and deserve to be honored for that.

you were once wild here.
don’t let them tame you

(Isadora Duncan)

One beautiful wolf girl, who by DNA content was all wolf, came ecstatically bounding up to the fence to greet me, tail wagging and eyes beaming. I asked why we weren’t going inside the enclosure to meet her, since she was clearly so friendly, and I was told that she, too, was unpredictable, but in her own way: Her affection was so wild and boundless that it could be interpreted by humans as aggression. Wolf kisses are often peppered with toothy nips, wolf hugs can easily become a full body takedown. A more domesticated canid learns the rules of what is acceptable affection and what is not, but a very wild being will not simply “learn” to deny their instincts. This would be the denial of their own soul.

I was particularly delighted by this kind of unpredictability — a wolf-like rapture that makes us want to devour this world, because it is just that delicious. What kind of rules might you be willing to break, in order to let yourself express the fullness of your instinctual love for the world? Remembering: the most unpredictable wolf is the one with the most beautiful voice of all.

Perhaps that which we define as unpredictable or untamable is equal to that which has not yet severed its connection to the wild soul. We all contain remnants of DNA coded with that creative freedom. Mythopoetically, the wolf is the archetypal symbol of the wild feminine. The wolf represents the instinctual part of us that knows exactly how to take care of this planet, in a way that honors death and gives way to collective flourishing. The wolf’s cosmopoetic gift is known as the trophic cascade within ecosystems, wherein all worlds thrive by the grace of their presence (watch: How Wolves Change Rivers. I still cry every time).

The predation of wolves and women
by those who misunderstand them
is strikingly similar.

(Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes)

When the US colonial settlers brutally exterminated the native gray wolf population alongside the horrific genocide of the indigenous humans, wasn’t this an attempt to eradicate the unpredictable, uncontainable wild soul emanating from Earth, and from ourselves? In a lecture I attended recently by wild canid advocate Dan Flores, he referred to this attempted erasure as the “colonial treatment.” It is the fear-based drive to claim power over what is mysterious and untamable inside us. This competitive, tyrannical force is very much alive in our world today, and is perpetuated by the way we engage with (or are taught to oppress) our own hearts.

The vilification of wolves continues in the US to this day. Wolves mirror to humans our inability to dominate the wild force of nature: they remind us of our fear of death, and we have persecuted them for it. Racism, misogyny, homophobia, all of these are byproducts of the human superiority complex, in an attempt to maintain the illusion of safety through domination and sameness. How we treat wolves, the human female body (and the feminine in us all), and indigenous and marginalized humans is equal to our level of willingness to protect and honor the land as a living being— A mother who gives birth to an endless diversity of life forms, and who gives death with an equal measure of care.

Access to the heart comes from
a willingness to deny nothing.

(Stephen Levine)

What kind of world do we want to help create? What do we long to fiercely protect. I dream of wolves being permanently relisted under the Endangered Species Act, after having been removed from protections in 2020. I dream of a world where we aren’t quite so terrified of freeing the feminine soul, where the hardened line between the wild world and the domesticated world becomes a little more permeable. In her book “Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World,” Linda Hogan writes that the Anishnabe people believe humans descended from wolves, that we once spoke the same language, and that to this day are longing to recover that missing wild wolf soul in ourselves:

All of us are intent on seeing the wolves, or hearing them wail the song our ancestors knew the words to. We are looking for the clue to a mystery, a relative inside our own blood, an animal so equal to us that it reflects back what we hate and love about ourselves.

We have followed the wolves and are trying to speak across the boundaries of ourselves.

Inside the creative universe a wolf’s eyes burns an active willingness to love wildly, and a clear glimmer of of devastation. They understand the price of their tenderness. Wolves live incredibly challenging lives and grieve deeply for lost pack members, just a much as we do. The humans who hunt wolves for sport do not understand this. But the wolves will never surrender their love, and are not able to — because loving fiercely is who they are. So the wolves have always created a world of more love, of more unpredictable delights, more flashes of lightning blazing with rapture for the land. This is the job of all apex predators, including us: to protect this world, to roam free, and to help the earth flourish.

I helped feed the sanctuary wolves their breakfast the morning before I left. This entailed hurling giant frozen blocks of raw animal parts over their 10 foot tall fences. Whole fish, chunks of flesh, fur, bone. Seventy wild voices growled in ravenous joy. I heard more voices from far overhead, and saw two dozen ravens circling in hunger, in that ancient co-creative dance between the worlds of sky and earth.

We wait. We are waiting for the wolves to answer. We want a healing, I think, a cure for anguish, a remedy that will heal the wound between us and the world that contains our broken histories. If we could only hear them, the stars themselves are howling…

(Linda Hogan, Dwellings)

Wolves inspire me to walk through my own life as a cosmopoet, to meet the present moment with fullness of heart, and respond from that place. Like the wolf, we must remember our responsibility to be here in a way that creates more worlds, more biodiversity and more freedom for self and others. To investigate the ways in which our embodied instincts, the phasing moon, the coyotes and the ravens are calling to us. To trust that we have gifts to share with them, and that those gifts are deeply longed for.

“The Calling Home” by Lucy Campbell

This writing is dedicated to a very beautiful wolfdog named Zephyr, who I fell in love with. Her radiant spirit was the kind that instantly made me long to be close to her, but she was shy. She watched me from a distance inside her enclosure, and I could see her excitement to meet me and also the shyness that held her back. After a long while of sitting on the ground quietly with my eyes closed, I felt it: on the exposed skin of my lower back, a soft, wet nose gently touched. Then silently she flew off into the tall grass.

Do you dare to be mischievous in the name of love? Zephyr does. That bright ripple of her bravery changed my heart for life, in her willingness to enter my world for curiosity’s sake. What strange delight might you be willing to touch your nose to, in order to help a new world flourish? As we walk forth into the dark folds of autumn, may we take Zephyr’s invitation to courageously approach that luminous threshold where the two worlds touch. And may we endlessly surprise ourselves.

The path forward is guided by four paws. Coyote tracks (Canis latrans), Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

thank you so much for being here

with dreams for many worlds to flourish
filled with ferocity of heart
unpredictable delights
fang-toothed kisses
and hugs that knock the breath out of us,
Kate