Dances with Pumpkins

He paced. Strong-legged and focused, yet with a very shy curiosity, he paced. Back and forth, to a fro, he paced. Smooth he moved, like a painter’s brush. Something was afoot and this he felt, he smelled, he knew. Something quickened in the air, something different, something new.

Then it happened. In one sudden flash of motion and color, all connections to logic and experience imploded. Reason and knowledge were at once inert. This was certainly new, new indeed! And he became- that instant! - completely at the mercy of his natural self.

…and he danced.

There is a wolf sanctuary near Eureka, Missouri. Back in the cool embrace of those deciduous arms of I-44, you can see the beauty and grace of a noble and storied creature. The wolf connects us to our land, as the Native Americans knew him rightly as “brother.” The wolf connects us to our sins, as it was us who demonized and slaughtered him for fear of his teeth and greed for his pelt. And the wolf connects us to our selves, as we all share the dichotomy of vicious teeth and tender love, of violent survival and loyal coupling. The wolf is truly our spiritual brother, more than a little confused and more than a little beautiful.

On a fall day in 2005, I visited the wolf sanctuary for a special event. We humans picnicked and mingled. We ate cool pasta salad and warm chicken. We drank lemonade and later coffee with our chocolate chip cookies. We glanced through the fence between bites, or at lulls in the tired banter of “What do you do?” and “Where do you live?”

On the other side of the fence, our kindred spirits paced. They were curious, yet unafraid, over this congregation of two-legged-ones. But when the congregation broke, and the two-leggeds moved en masse and peered in, things changed. The buzz and chewing of the two-leggeds stopped, and they now started to stare. At this transition, the wolves became acutely sensitive to the new environment.

Back on the human side of the fence, the park staff explained what would happen next – the throwing of fat, orange pumpkins over the fence. (Yes, you heard that right. Why, you ask?) On impact, the pumpkins would break and the wolves would be overwhelmed with ambition. They would sniff the pumpkin and run away, then sniff again and nip at the orange rinds and run away, then finally return to grab the orange pieces and either fling them into the air or hoard them in a tree trunk or secret den. Wolves do not eat the pumpkins, the staff explained, they play with them!

But to the wolves, this was all still a great mystery. Was a flying pumpkin any more or any less curious than a piercing bullet or a rusty snare? No, to a wolf, it is all just new and interesting and worthy of great attention. So they watched and waited. The orange trajectory cleared the barrier, locked in pairs of orange eyes, and then - thwump! – it burst in the grass and dust.

I can’t describe with any accuracy the wolves’ reactions. It was playful and totally illogical and completely natural. It progressed like a symphony tells a story or a painter covers the canvas. On the ground, a broken pumpkin. Moving around and about, an endangered carnivore. And together, they danced.

Completely at the mercy of his natural self, he danced.

A human can’t invent this kind of beauty, but a human sure can enjoy it. I tell you truly that today’s world needs more pumpkins, more wolves, and a lot more dancing.

bn (October 2006)