The Steppenwolf and the Sadness of Letting Go 2

I wrote the piece on myself as the Steppenwolf at 1:30 AM this morning. I wasn't in a good mood; I sat and looked at the computer screen trying to think of something to write. I couldn't think of anything so I went to bed but then I couldn't sleep. Then there was this heaving feeling as if I was being tossed around by waves in the ocean, and I knew I had to NOT write a pleasant piece on nature, etc., although there is nothing wrong with those.

I've been thinking about it all day, me as the Steppenwolf I mean. There's some comfort there. I came to the end, my wolf and me, when we squatted in the middle of the night by the side of the 300 pound man, and we couldn't roll him over to put a diaper on him. I was covered with sweat, my arms ached, and I knew it was the end. The wolf had been quite strong, active, always triumphant, and not being simply a brute or a monster, intelligent. Does this mean the best part of me is dead? This is terrifying.

No, absolutely not. The wolf is, after all, not really dead. The wolf is changing; reflecting inwardly now instead of emerging victorious after pulling a 12 hour shift in the nursing home or the group home. Where it was doesn't matter. What matters is that the primary physical work of the wolf is over.

I have to say that this is the deepest reflection I've done for decades. This is the place the wolf chose to lead me.