The White Wolf
Drawing boundaries and exploring the wild feminine
“We are going to do a small exercise today,” said my therapist.
I looked at him over the rim of my cup, gulping a large amount of steaming hot tea. I was nervous. My palms were sweaty and my armpits soaked. This was my third session. The previous two had been intense and I was looking forward to an hour of chatting/vomiting and not play-acting.
“I hope it involves a lot of sitting,” I joked nervously.
“Come outside. I’ll tell you what we will do,” he said, smiling encouragingly.
I left my cup of tea on the small side table in his room and followed him. His house was on the top floor of a three-storeyed house in South Delhi. The terrace was adjacent to a small forest, and I often heard peacocks on my way back home. We walked to a small opening at the back of the house, between his bedroom and the kitchen. It was a 10-foot by 10-foot square terrace, tiled in speckled grey terrazzo, enclosed on all four sides with whitewashed walls, the ceiling open to the sky.
“We will work on setting boundaries today.”
“Okay…”
“I want you to stand on this corner, here,” he said, gesturing to one side of the space, “and I will stand diagonally opposite you, here,” he finished, walking to the other end.
I stood still, hands clenched into fists at my sides, my heart pounding loudly.
“Now close your eyes and imagine an object, animal, bird, any creature or thing that could help you feel safe. Take a few deep breaths.” I did as I was told, breathing slowly. No object, animal, bird or creature appeared. No one seemed to have my back. “When you are ready, open your eyes,” he continued, speaking softly from the opposite end.
I opened my eyes and nodded. With no animal in sight, I decided I had my own back.
“I will walk towards you, one step at a time. When you feel uncomfortable, tell me to stop,” he said, looking at me. I nodded again.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
He took one step towards me, slowly and tentatively.
“STOP” I screamed. He stopped immediately as if frozen mid-step. We looked at each other silently.
And then I heard the growl. It came from behind my right shoulder – a low warning snarl, deep-throated and vicious. I felt the hair rise on my arms, a bolt of electricity coursing up my spine. I had manifested a massive white wolf. I stood there, legs shoulder width apart, hands balled into fists. But this time I was not nervous. I felt his power and protection. I felt strong. Anger coursed through me like a raging river. He was behind me but I could see him clearly – golden eyes watching my therapist, waiting for him to make a move. I felt my hand brush against his fur. It was thick and coarse. He growled again, as if in acknowledgement.
“Don’t move,” I told my therapist, my chin raised in defiance.
“Something has shifted in you,” he observed.
“Step back,” I commanded him. He did as he was told, waiting silently.
I closed my eyes and slowly rolled my neck, making circles. I moved my shoulders clockwise and counterclockwise. I was no longer in a small enclosed terrace in a South Delhi apartment. My feet were bare, my hair open, the soft curls kissing my waist. My face was painted white and red – an intricate pattern of swirling lines and dots that travelled from my temples to my neck, shoulders and chest. We were in a forest, on top of a mountain overlooking a small settlement of homes in the valley below. A gentle wind caressed my body. A thin fabric was wrapped loosely around my torso and hips, tied at the waist with a rope. The wolf stood next to me, alert and aware.
We moved as one unit, on soft feet, silent and stealthy. Were we on a hunt? No, it didn’t feel like that. We were scouting, watching and waiting. An owl hooted nearby. It would be dark soon. The wolf nudged my hand gently, its wet snout tickling my palm. I patted his head, letting my hand sink into the fur between his ears.
The sun will set soon. We should be on our way back now.
He’s in my head, talking to me. I am not surprised. I nod. We turn and begin our long journey downhill.
“What do you see?”
I am brought back into the small enclosed space, the cool winds of the mountain replaced by the oppressive summer heat. The wolf fades from my shoulder. But I sense his presence knowing I can call him again, when needed.
My therapist is still standing diagonally opposite me, waiting for me to respond.
“What did you see?” he asks again.
“I saw a white wolf. He appeared when you took a step towards me.”
“Your spirit animal, your protector.”
I nodded, unsure of what to make of any of it.
“Your body language changed completely. You looked like a..”
“..Warrior,” I said, completing his sentence. “I felt like one.”
“Was the wolf a part of you?”
“Yes and no. He is a part of me but he is also a separate entity. It felt like we were connected. We moved as one,” I said, trying to recall the feeling.
“You drew your first boundary today. You channelled your inner warrior. Stay with the wolf. Let him out more often.”
“A white wolf is my spirit animal,” I said smiling in awe, more to myself than my therapist.
“Maybe... or the wolf is you,” he replied, smiling back.
“Let's go in and finish that cup of tea.”
The wolf stayed with me as I walked back home that day. He appeared in many sessions throughout the two years of my therapy. Sometimes he was a younger version, curious and playful. Other times he arrived clad in armour, fur covered in muck, blood dripping from his sharp fangs. But mostly, he was a quiet presence by my side.
I found it hard to acknowledge him. Which sane person would believe me if I told them that I had a wolf as my companion? So instead, I brushed him off as a part of the therapy process. Maybe I was hypnotised. Maybe I was in the zone. Maybe I was reading too many fantasy novels.
But no matter what I told myself, and how many excuses I made, the wolf never quite left me. He did not intrude, ever the silent guardian watching my back. I pretended to not see him or feel him. He did not care.
I completed my therapy a few months ago.
“You are in a good place Samira. You don’t need me anymore,” I remember my therapist telling me.
“What is a good place?” I asked.
“Where you are right now.”
My beautiful white beast hasn’t shown himself since that day. I haven’t felt his watchful golden eyes over my right shoulder. He is slumbering, waiting to be manifested. I know that he will appear when boundaries are meant to be established, his energy coursing through me like live-wire. Perhaps in a past life, we ran together, feet bare with wind in our hair. Or maybe in this life, I am meant to lose my shoes and walk bare feet. The forest calls to me and my soul aches to feel the rich moist soil under my feet. And yet I resist.
I understand now the many cages I have built for myself, decorating them with pretty things, petty tasks and shoes. The wolf understands the meaningless of it all. But I don’t know how to break the locks. He waits, till I find my way through the dense labyrinth of expectations. He waits for me to acknowledge him.
For he knows that women were always meant to run with the wolves – wild and free.
. . .
This is a fairly accurate account of a therapy session, possibly inspired by Women who run with the wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés - a book I would highly recommend if you haven’t read it already - one which I was reading when I manifested the wolf.
In response to an open ended prompt at
(memoir workshop) facilitated by & - the most magical space for anyone who likes to write.
Samira, this is sublime . You transported me right into the center of your scene and it was like I was a part of it. And of course you are a white wolf. Your words read like that.
If you have ever written fiction or plan or writing it , I would happily gobble everything that you write.
"The forest calls to me and my soul aches to feel the rich moist soil under my feet”.
This sentence, here..I feel like you pulled out exactly what my soul craves right now.