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The fires that incinerated large swaths of Los Angeles raged under the light of Tevet’s full moon. This moon is known in many Native American cultures as the Wolf Moon, and as I watched the flames, the smoke, and the panic engulf my city, the sound of a deep howl arose from within — a sound so harrowing, for a moment it was louder than the relentless sirens and helicopters and phone alerts. 

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I howl now, learning how many have died, how many homes are dusty heaps of ash and contorted metal, and how many more acres of California trees have been scorched. 

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I howl now, learning that late evacuation orders were given to the fourth-generation historically-Black and brown town of Altadena — which might otherwise have saved lives and livelihoods. I howl now, for every person whose life has been irreversibly altered and the concepts of sanctuary and home will forever seem elusive, and I howl now for every inconsolable child who has felt terror in their bones and every survivor who will live with nightmares. 

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I howl against the looting and price gouging that the evacuees are battling, and I howl for the animals that have lost any familiar habitat. I howl for my friends and every stranger who might not ever be able to unsee the apocalyptic vision of their neighborhood burning to the ground while pundits blame DEI initiatives. I howl with rage that some could afford private firefighters while others lost everything they’d ever dreamed of owning. I howl against the gross land mismanagement and for Indigenous cultural burning practices to be generously funded. I howl for land to be tended with the hands and hearts of thousands of years of conscious stewardship. 

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And while I howl for the steady rain events to snuff the fires and to clean and clear the toxic ash and the lead and asbestos particulates from the air — how can this not affect LA’s water supply? I howl in fear of the mudslides that inevitably follow when rain arrives to fire-ravaged landscapes — and I howl to revere instead of fear the elements. I howl for the timely and equitable rebuilding of LA, centering neighborhoods that have been a haven for redlined communities. I howl for sufficient public discourse on rebuilding the city with non-toxic materials. I howl for the first responders and all the allies who have built hyperlocal networks of mutual aid to fundraise and resource and platform LA’s most impacted folks. I howl knowing that in the smoldering aftermath of these fires, this country’s leadership has formally kicked sustainability out the back door of the White House — precisely when momentum has finally inspired shifts in climate policy. 

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On the night of the full Wolf Moon, I went outside and howled this anguish with my pack — we howled for all those who came before us and will come after — knowing it could have been so different, if there were greater reverence for the land. 

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Four things about wolves and humans experiencing grief:

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1) The wolf call is chilling and melodious. 

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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 — not unlike the haunting sound of people all over the city in unfathomable grief as climate chaos rages. 

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It is the sound of our helplessness to stop wind, tame fire, save home, or keep faith. It is the gut-wrenching cry over the remains of gutted neighborhoods. It is the lamentation of irretrievable loss: the family heirlooms, the homemade gifts, the autographed swag, the irreplaceable photos, the handwritten letters, the kids’ art collected over a lifetime. The wolf’s howl sounds like the human loss of the primal feeling of safety. 

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2) Wolves howl to find their pack and bond. 

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During this catastrophe, we have heard the echo of others in our packs doing just that. I’ve witnessed immense fortitude among friends who’ve lost their homes yet remain optimistic and generous. I’ve seen it in the offers of support from people flying in from around the world to serve and rebuild. Catastrophe brings out the best in people: shelter shelves have been stocked to  overflowing; mutual-aid spreadsheets are so full with pro-bono listings that they have no room for more entries — even as newly forming lists are constantly being circulated. 

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Amid such deep grief, people are seeking out ways to spread acts of radical kindness through networks where people can bond and tend to their pack, an ever-expanding circle. 

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3) Wolves howl to defend their territory. 

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We have witnessed no end to the heroic stories of hospice workers, first responders, random strangers, and neighbors placing themselves inconceivably close to the fiery licks of death in order to defend their territory and protect each others’ homes. I can’t stop thinking of people in our communities that have seen this before. This inferno imagery must recall so many layers of intergenerational trauma. 

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I think of the Jews from Pasadena Jewish Temple & Center who grieve together — their wrought-iron Star of David gate is all that remains of a synagogue reduced to rubble. The community was able to defend some of their territory with a miraculous rescue of their Torah scrolls. 

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4) Wolves seek sustenance with the strength of the pack. 

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And as we seek sustenance 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 folks turn toward what remains. Our people, and many others, know how to do this well.

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We cycle in an ancient dance with traumatic displacement, courageous regeneration, and a sacred relationship with time. This Wolf Moon has offered us an invitation 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. 

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Coincidentally, under this moon, we read the Torah portion of Vayechi. In this parshah, Jacob offers his sons their blessings. 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). Professor David Shyovitz points out that like a werewolf, Benjamin ‘‘devoured’’ his mother Rachel, who died while giving birth to him (rachel, in Hebrew, means “ewe”). Shylovitz also notes that 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 might we make to slow the wind’s howl and call in the annual quenching rains?

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As an apex predator, the wolf howls a hunger to survive and find its pack. If you listen closely, you might 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 what once was, when our ancestors across lineage and time tended land as sacred.  

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At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.

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Sources

Parashat Vayechi: Summary, My Jewish Learning

Judaism and SFF, Sefaria

Christians and Jews in the Twelfth-Century Werewolf Renaissance, JSTOR

Mutual Aid LA, MALAN

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