The fires that incinerated large swaths of Los Angeles raged under the light of Tevet’s full moon. This moon is known in many Native American cultures as the Wolf Moon, and as I watched the flames, the smoke, and the panic engulf my city, the sound of a deep howl arose from within — a sound so harrowing, for a moment it was louder than the relentless sirens and helicopters and phone alerts. 

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I howl now, learning how many have died, how many homes are dusty heaps of ash and contorted metal, and how many more acres of California trees have been scorched. 

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I howl now, learning that late evacuation orders were given to the fourth-generation historically-Black and brown town of Altadena — which might otherwise have saved lives and livelihoods. I howl now, for every person whose life has been irreversibly altered and the concepts of sanctuary and home will forever seem elusive, and I howl now for every inconsolable child who has felt terror in their bones and every survivor who will live with nightmares. 

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I howl against the looting and price gouging that the evacuees are battling, and I howl for the animals that have lost any familiar habitat. I howl for my friends and every stranger who might not ever be able to unsee the apocalyptic vision of their neighborhood burning to the ground while pundits blame DEI initiatives. I howl with rage that some could afford private firefighters while others lost everything they’d ever dreamed of owning. I howl against the gross land mismanagement and for Indigenous cultural burning practices to be generously funded. I howl for land to be tended with the hands and hearts of thousands of years of conscious stewardship. 

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And while I howl for the steady rain events to snuff the fires and to clean and clear the toxic ash and the lead and asbestos particulates from the air — how can this not affect LA’s water supply? I howl in fear of the mudslides that inevitably follow when rain arrives to fire-ravaged landscapes — and I howl to revere instead of fear the elements. I howl for the timely and equitable rebuilding of LA, centering neighborhoods that have been a haven for redlined communities. I howl for sufficient public discourse on rebuilding the city with non-toxic materials. I howl for the first responders and all the allies who have built hyperlocal networks of mutual aid to fundraise and resource and platform LA’s most impacted folks. I howl knowing that in the smoldering aftermath of these fires, this country’s leadership has formally kicked sustainability out the back door of the White House — precisely when momentum has finally inspired shifts in climate policy. 

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On the night of the full Wolf Moon, I went outside and howled this anguish with my pack — we howled for all those who came before us and will come after — knowing it could have been so different, if there were greater reverence for the land. 

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Four things about wolves and humans experiencing grief:

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1) The wolf call is chilling and melodious. 

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Driven by hunger, wolf howls echo through canyons and valleys deep into the night. It is a melancholy sort of moan that reverberates throughout the land — not unlike the haunting sound of people all over the city in unfathomable grief as climate chaos rages. 

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It is the sound of our helplessness to stop wind, tame fire, save home, or keep faith. It is the gut-wrenching cry over the remains of gutted neighborhoods. It is the lamentation of irretrievable loss: the family heirlooms, the homemade gifts, the autographed swag, the irreplaceable photos, the handwritten letters, the kids’ art collected over a lifetime. The wolf’s howl sounds like the human loss of the primal feeling of safety. 

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2) Wolves howl to find their pack and bond. 

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During this catastrophe, we have heard the echo of others in our packs doing just that. I’ve witnessed immense fortitude among friends who’ve lost their homes yet remain optimistic and generous. I’ve seen it in the offers of support from people flying in from around the world to serve and rebuild. Catastrophe brings out the best in people: shelter shelves have been stocked to  overflowing; mutual-aid spreadsheets are so full with pro-bono listings that they have no room for more entries — even as newly forming lists are constantly being circulated. 

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Amid such deep grief, people are seeking out ways to spread acts of radical kindness through networks where people can bond and tend to their pack, an ever-expanding circle. 

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3) Wolves howl to defend their territory. 

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We have witnessed no end to the heroic stories of hospice workers, first responders, random strangers, and neighbors placing themselves inconceivably close to the fiery licks of death in order to defend their territory and protect each others’ homes. I can’t stop thinking of people in our communities that have seen this before. This inferno imagery must recall so many layers of intergenerational trauma. 

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I think of the Jews from Pasadena Jewish Temple & Center who grieve together — their wrought-iron Star of David gate is all that remains of a synagogue reduced to rubble. The community was able to defend some of their territory with a miraculous rescue of their Torah scrolls. 

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4) Wolves seek sustenance with the strength of the pack. 

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And as we seek sustenance in the heart of this darkness, people all over this scorched city are tracking ways to show up and move with shared purpose through landscapes of grief. There is an unmistakable strength in the pack as folks turn toward what remains. Our people, and many others, know how to do this well.

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We cycle in an ancient dance with traumatic displacement, courageous regeneration, and a sacred relationship with time. This Wolf Moon has offered us an invitation to strengthen the bonds with our pack — to build practices and policies that will sustain us as we contend with the irreversibility of climate chaos. 

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Coincidentally, under this moon, we read the Torah portion of Vayechi. In this parshah, Jacob offers his sons their blessings. When it’s Benjamin’s turn, the commentary suggests his father sees him as a ravenous wolf: “In the morning he consumes the foe, and in the evening he divides the spoil” (Genesis 49:27). Professor David Shyovitz points out that like a werewolf, Benjamin ‘‘devoured’’ his mother Rachel, who died while giving birth to him (rachel, in Hebrew, means “ewe”). Shylovitz also notes that werewolves are linked to an obscure aspect of Temple altar tending, the terumat ha-deshen, or ‘‘offering of ashes,’’ where the priestesses would ceremonially collect and dispose of the altar ashes. Ashes are all around our city. What kind of offering might we make to slow the wind’s howl and call in the annual quenching rains?

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As an apex predator, the wolf howls a hunger to survive and find its pack. If you listen closely, you might hear others in your pack howling their grief. It may sound like a familiar cry of anguish, or a prayerful song of gratitude for solidarity received. It may sound like a reverence for the forces of nature, or like a melancholy moan for what once was, when our ancestors across lineage and time tended land as sacred.  

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At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.

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Sources

Parashat Vayechi: Summary, My Jewish Learning

Judaism and SFF, Sefaria

Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Werewolf Renaissance, JSTOR

Mutual Aid LA, MALAN

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Devorah Brous

Devorah Brous is the creator of FromSoil2Soul, where she guides grief support and collective healing rituals. An herbalist and multimedia artist, after 15+ years of running Jewish Green nonprofits in Israel/Palestine and LA, today she lives with her family at their urban homestead on Tongva lands (Los Angeles). Learn more at fromsoil2soul.com and on Instagram @dev.brous. To support FromSoil2Soul in making herbal remedies for LA Fire Survivors and Evacuees: Make a tax-deductible donation to Oshala Farm for LA Fire Relief and write Dev Brous | FromSoil2Soul in the notes section at checkout.

Artist’s Statement, Devorah Brous  

My life’s work is a devotional poem to the mystical Tree of Life - an iconic symbol of interbeing, balance, and reciprocity. My photographs and altars of fruit, berry, bark, leaf, bud, and native plants reveal the Tree of Life in infinite form - microcosms of precision that all originate from one macrocosm. 

In Jewish mysticism, trees and people are woven together through a reciprocal exchange of breath. “For we are like trees in the field.” (Deut. 20:19) Tree roots anchor as branches seek sunlight that leaves can alchemize into food. Likewise, our own familial roots anchor and shape us through generations of bonding, loss, and renewal. The Tree of Life is a healing bridge between our ancestors and descendants, the ephemeral and eternal, the soil and soul.

According to Kabbalah, the fruits of the Tree of Life are parts of the soul that can be found in nature - in the landscapes we love, and those we’ve lost. Kabbalists believe that our senses are a direct conduit to the soul, and that eating fruit is a way of tapping into the soul. As you engage the senses and wander through the Four Worlds, each a category of fruit, my hope is that you taste renewal.

In the bleak aftermath of the wildfires, the cycles of destruction and renewal have left many people fearful of nature’s elements. Yet in Hebrew, fear and awe share the same root. In the Kabbalistic compilation of books, the Zohar 11:24A, it is said that “Fire, wind, earth, and water are the sources and roots of all things above and below.” May these altars of everyday fruit gift us a moment of awe over nature’s myriad offerings. As we feed or are fed by the sheer magnanimity and swift organizational efficiency of LA’s abundant mutual-aid network offerings in times of crisis, may you feel grounded, centered, and rooted. 

In these installations, note that all that ripens also rots. And the inverse is also true: what is lost, becomes nutrient and mineral for what is yet to come. Kabbalists remind us to take note of the barely perceptible shifts that happen mid-winter with an eye toward renewal. We’ve seen the hopeful signs that herald renewal in our landscapes before. Listen in for a healing landscape story that reveals where adaptation has already begun in LA: the hint of bud swell on a branch, native plant “fire-followers” that sprout next to a burnt tree, or the “fuzzing” along a tree trunk where a bird nest is being woven. The Tree of Life and Traditional Ecological Knowledge both remind us that the recovery of our urban communities and LA’s wilderness, the waterways, and the air we breathe all hang in the balance of our ecologies.

~Devorah Brous | FromSoil2Soul  

http://podcast.livingelemental.com - I loved speaking with #TracyJames @LivingElemental on the #BravingtheElements podcast. Grab a mug of tea, have a listen, and reach out with ANY and ALL feedback. Really reaching out to folks who’ve tried everything else to overcome burnout and are seeking how to regenerate the inner landscape…Please find me. #fromsoil2soul

#regeneration #bodymindsoil #spiritualecology #fallow #sacredearth #womenchangemakers

“Growing food regeneratively is a tangible benefit for the wellness of the individual, the community, and the planet: swapping out a severed relationship with nature for a renewed, reciprocal relationship with the healing forces of nature,” Brous tells Food Tank.

Dev.Brous joins 15 of LA’s regenerative leaders to dialogue with LA’s Chief Sustainability Officer at Skanska’s event, Collective Impact. Sustainability

“Without the pause to fallow, any system that is required to produce around the clock will reach a threshold. Yet, the pause that nature reminds us to take in most parts of the country does not exist amid CA’s historic drought. All the more so, we need to fallow and bring stillness into our farm and garden planning to cycle nutrients and grow the microbiology that builds living soils. We need to fallow in order to mitigate and adapt our climate-wise urban landscapes with greywater; drip irrigation; and native cultivars. Fallow is also the crucial pause that invites our own regeneration. Start somewhere – be still in a garden – even just seven minutes a week.”

nature, mindfulness, seasonal shifts