The Howl

At eight p.m. in Marin County people howl.

In Italy they sing, in England they applaud.  Here, we howl.

Last night I went out a little early.  I wanted to hear how it started.  And sure enough, just before eight, a lonely yip.  Silence.  Again the yip.  Then an answering call from above us, a long low wail.  And presently Mae and I added our voices (Lana is an infrequent howler).  We favor a classic yowl - any wolf would be proud.  

Soon the dogs join in.  Then the turkeys.  Occasionally the coyotes.  And Mae and I start gobbling because we find it hilarious.  And then eventually we start mimicking our neighbor below us, who on summer evenings calls her cat with a long melodic “Leeeeeeeeeeeeoooooo”.  She fancies herself a singer - we’re also privy to her voice lessons.  Mae and I call “Leeeeeeeeeoooooo” and then giggle at our meanness.  Then usually, the howl is petering out and we return to our puzzle and our audiobook.

The howl, as far as I know, started in Mill Valley.  I think it was rationalized as a tribute to healthcare workers - I believe that’s the reasoning behind the Italian singing and the English clapping.  But I’ll say this.  As grateful as I am to the people working the front lines of this war, those risking their own health and the health of their loved ones, working long and harrowing hours, I do not howl for them.

I howl because I miss people and that communal exercise connects me to them.  Strangers, not the friends that I reach out to via text or phone.  Connection with strangers has been put on hold through this crisis.  

I howl because I’ve been caged all day.  I’ve been good all day.  I’ve stoppered my fear (about my health, my people’s health, my shuttered business).  I’ve kept myself away from almost everything that makes my life - my friends, my boyfriend, my shop, even the pleasure of chatting with acquaintances at grocery stores.  I’ve done that for the sake of others.  For my own safety and that of my kids, yes, though I’m not so worried about the virus getting us.  I’m more worried about the virus getting other people THROUGH us.  I’ve kept a lid on it.  I’ve behaved.  And come eight o’clock, I’m ready to unleash a bit of my contained wildness.  And I do so at the top of my lungs.

We’re living in such strange times.  But nature hates a vacuum.  Into the abyss of the mundanity of sheltering in place, of quarantining, is sucked new rhythms, new joys.  The long hike with teenagers in the middle of a Tuesday.  The lentil soup made mid-morning because we eat at weird times.  The streaming barre class, squinting at my laptop to make out the images of my friends deep plies.  The six o’clock happy hour with my boyfriend, six feet apart on the deck, rain or shine.

There is joy here.  There’s fear.  There’s despair.  There’s loneliness.  There’s loss.  But there’s also, come eight o’clock, a long and loving howl rising up through the trees, many voices raised in solidarity.  We’re here.  We’re alive.  Ah-woooooooooo.