Tonight is the Tevet FULLmoon, known in Native American cultures as the Wolf Moon. 

This Wolf Moon is a chance to howl, and listen for the echo of others in our packs who are doing the same. Howl for every person whose life has been irreversibly altered, howl for everyone who feels terrified and howl for the animals that have no idea where they are, and howl for the children that will never unsee what they’ve seen too many times since their home burned to the ground. Howl a hunger for rain. Howl with rage that some afford private firefighters and others have lost every single thing they’ve ever dreamed of owning. Howl for gross land mismanagement and Howl that climate is always being kicked out the back door when it comes to federal funding. Howl for the LA neighborhoods that have been here since the dawn of time. Howl for indigenous cultural burning practices to be generously funded and for land to be rematriated and tended with the hands and hearts of thousands of years of stewardship. Howl for the first responders and all the allies and strangers who have built networks from scratch to fundraise and resource and platform LA’s most impacted black, brown, and queer folks. Go outside and Howl your grief, and the anguish of all those who came before you, and will come after you – knowing it could have been so different if there was more reverence for the land.

I want to share four things about wolves and humans experiencing grief: 1) The wolf call is chilling and melodious. 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 - which is not unlike the haunting sound of people wailing all over the city in unfathomable grief as wildfires still rage. The inability to stop wind or tame fire...The loss of home, the loss of faith. The gut-wrenching remains of gutted neighborhoods. The inability to bring back what has been collected over a lifetime...The loss of family heirlooms; homemade gifts; the autographed swag; the plants and animals; the irreplaceable photos; the handwritten letters; the kid’s stuffies. 

2) Wolves howl to find their pack members, communicate, and bond. The flood of support with people flying in from around the world to put out fires; the fundraising efforts to stock shelves that are already overflowing with every supply imaginable for evacuees; the mutual aid spreadsheets that are so full with pro-bono listings there is literally no room for more entries; the endless efforts to bond in the face of travesty. Amid such deep grief, people are seeking out ways to communicate, ways to find, tend, and bond with each other.

3) Wolves howl to defend their territory. We just keep on witnessing heroic stories of hospice workers, first responders, random strangers and neighbors placing themselves inconceivably close to the fiery licks of death in order to survive others’ homes and animals, and to defend our territories. 

4) While tracking their prey, wolves seek sustenance with the strength of the pack. And as we seek sustenance like wolves 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 people turn toward what remains.

As “Moon People” that cycle in an ancient dance with traumatic displacement and sacred relationship with time, this Moon might invite us 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. 

Coincidentally, under this full Wolf Moon, we read Vayechi this week. Jacob offers his sons their blessings, and 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. I came across Professor David Shyovitz who points out that like werewolves, Benjamin ‘‘devoured’’ his mother Rachel (Hebrew for “a sheep”) who died while giving birth to him. And, Shylovitz also writes about how 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 could we make to call in the rains to quench the fire and to slow the wind’s howl?

As an apex predator, the ravenous wolf in the landscape is not merely fighting to survive, it is bonding with its pack and fulfilling a role in the ecosystem. If you listen closely tonight, you might be able to 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 rain.