Rage is a thing with claws
Can you recognise the shadow of rage in your own life? Can you feel gently into the roots of your rage? Can you learn to be with rage, without shame?
“Mad Mis, mad as a fish,” they said. Covered in black, matted fur, nails sharp, hands dirty, blood of fresh-pumping rabbit blood dripping from around her mouth, eyes red rimmed and fiery, Mis certainly looked Mad. The men and women of the land had almost forgotten the gentle young woman called Mis who had existed before. She had been the beautiful raven-haired, snowy-skinned and hazel-eyed daughter of an ambitious king, who set out to conquer Ireland. Her father had mustered all of the young, able-bodied men of his land and driven them into battle against the most infamous of Irish warriors, Fionn mac Cumaill. Mis had accompanied her father, for she loved him dearly and would see that he was looked after on the adventure. Reports of her beauty and gentle temperament had reached Ireland’s shores before their arrival, and many noble Irish men had hoped that she might one day be their wife. But this was far from her mind. After they landed at Dingle in County Kerry, a cruel battle commenced, a battle which lasted a year and a day. On the final day, Fionn, in a flash of inspiration, called upon the Tuatha Dé Danann, the tribe of the gods, a supernatural race, who helped him to finally defeat his invading enemy. Mis’ father was slain. News of this reached Mis, and she fled her safe refuge, entering the battlefield and searching for her father. By the time she arrived, the victors had left, and the battlefield was strewn with the corpses of her kinsmen. When she finally found his corpse, she fell down at his side in shock. She looked all around for his sword, any sword, any instrument with which she could cut and maim her father’s murderer. She found a weapon on the battlefield, but it was too heavy for her, and she could only but drag it behind her as she walked, searching in vain for her vengeance. Finding no one, she returned to her father’s corpse. What if, she thought, he’s not dead. Overwhelmed by grief and exhaustion, she threw herself across his body. A panic fell upon her and she licked and sucked at his bloody wounds like a wild animal, in order to attempt to heal them. When she came to the realisation that her beloved father was truly gone, she keened, shrieked and clawed at her wild, grief-ravaged face and blood-stained dress. She felt broken and fell into all-encompassing despair. Hardly aware of what she was doing now, she walked blindly into the woods, not knowing where she was going, and barely conscious that she was still alive herself. Time passed, and she wandered restlessly, restlessly through the woods, black fur started to grow all over her body, raven-like feathers burst like blades from her shoulders until she rose up into the air like a bird. She let out a long cry which is said to have shaken the hearts of all who heard it, and rose up into the air like a bird. She took flight and flew off into the mountains. She roamed the mountains for many years, and nearly everyone forgot her name. They said she lived like a wild animal, grubbing about in the earth and tearing apart the flesh of any wild animal which crossed her path. She terrorized the men when they crossed her path. When she saw them she would snarl and lash out, trying to tear them limb from limb. The local people grew afraid that she said she would sneak down to the villages and kill them all. These same men who had killed countless young men in battle, who would burn entire villages of women and children to the ground, who hunted creatures of the wild for sport, they were afraid of Mis’ rage. Mad Mis, mad as a fish, they said. The King of Munster grew concerned about Mis, he saw her as a threat to the stability of his kingdom, so he offered a great reward – half of his kingdom and Mis’ hand in marriage to anyone who could capture Mis alive and bring her back to her original nature. So fearsome had she become, and so unlike herself, that few men tried. The few who did were clawed at, chased away and left with their clothes and egos torn. Then, one day, an unlikely character stepped forward. He was a young, kind, and gentle harpist, named Dubh Ruis. He decided to take up the challenge, despite the mockery and doubt expressed by the fierce warriors who had attempted and failed. Nonetheless, the king decided he had nothing to lose by letting Dubh Ruis have a try at bringing Mis back to the world again. When Duch Ruis arrived at the mountains, he took off his clothes, laid out his cloak to sit on, spreading gold and silver coins in a wide circle around him. After placing a jug of fresh water with rose petals in and a piece of honey cake at the edge of the circle, he sat down quietly, playing his harp. The sweet sounds of the harp reached Mis in her cave. Not long after, the wild-eyed wolf woman Mis crept over to examine him. She recognised the sounds of the harp, the sweet music, from her life with her father. When she saw the beautiful young man playing, she felt immediately attracted to his beautiful vulnerability, the vibrant presence of his playing. She crept further towards him. She saw the jug and the plate, and she felt tempted to sip and nibble. Warmth started to spread over her. For days and days she sat with him as he played, and looked at her, and offered her nourishment. He spoke to her softly and kindly. Slowly, the feathers and the fur started to fall away, and he saw that she was truly beautiful. She even laughed one day at something he said. Tears filled her eyes after that, and she poured out all the grief. One day, Dubh said to her that he was hungry, so she went off and hunted a deer for him. This time, she could not use her claws, for they had turned back into the smooth, curved nails of her former life, so she picked up a stick and some flint, and fashioned a spear for herself. With this spear, she hunted the deer. After her spear embedded in the flesh of the poor creature’s heart, Mis fell to the ground over it. She wept and wept, and cried and cried. Dubh heard her and went to her. He put a comforting arm around her and she lent into him, pouring out all of the grief for her dead father until there was nothing left. Then, together they brought back the deer and the spear. That night, instead of eating the deer’s raw flesh, she and Dubh built a fire, and cooked the deer together, sharing the meal and giving thanks to the creature for it’s life. That night, Dubh built her a shelter from branches and a soft bed of moss. They made love tenderly and, the following day, Mis went down to the stream to bathe in it. To the waters, she washed away the dirt from her skin, the last of the feathers and fur. After dunking herself wholly, she re-emerged as the beautiful young woman she once was.
[The legend of Mis is a folk tale from Ireland. I first encountered a version of this myth in Sharon Blackie’s book When Women Rise Rooted, and I have retold it here in my own way.]
Reactions to rage
How do you feel when reading this story? What emerges for you in terms of your own views about rage and about transformation? What are your own attitudes to rage? How does rage show up in your own life? Is rage ‘something that others feel’ and not you? Is your rage some thing which causes obvious problems in your relationships? How comfortable or uncomfortable are you around others’ rage? Are you able to acknowledge and be with your own rage?
Allow your eyes to close, breathe deeply and ask yourself these questions. Your intuition will tell you. Pay attention to the sensations which arise and where in the body they arise as you contemplate this.
The pervasiveness of rage
The story of Mis tells us of the rage which may take root inside us if we cannot express our grief and anger as we need to when a wrong has been done to us. The rage of Mis turned inwards to herself, transforming her beyond her own recognition, and also outwards to the wrong people. I believe that most of us carry this archetype within us, for there is not one person on this earth to whom a wrong has not been done, and there are very few in our culture who have experienced the appropriate holding and support to be able to express their grief and anger appropriately in the moment. We are taught in out culture that feeling rage is bad. Rage is not bad. Yet it is, undeniably destructive if it is not recognised and held with compassion. It is a thing with claws. It grips us and holds us to get our attention, to tell us urgently that there is something we still have not addressed. Something is wrong, it says. We are not safe, it says.
The protective force of rage
There is a strong tendency towards denial and spiritual bypassing in our society. We often pretend to ourselves so convincingly that we do not feel the rage, because we have come to associate it with something negative, shameful and purely destructive. We are shamed for rage, we would like to hide our rage, and yet rage is everywhere. It is within in the beeping horns at the roundabout, it’s within the shouting of the woman at the cashier in the supermarket, it is within the punch-up at the football match, it is within the father shouting at his child to be quiet, it is within the pinch of the pull to his dog’s ears.
And this is why rage doesn’t diminish after it’s expressed through the beeping of a horn or the punching of a stranger. Rage doesn’t because it is usually not reaching the right target, it’s never being fully heard or felt or witnessed.
Yet, rage is a right and appropriate response to particular set of circumstances. Rage is the appropriate and healthy response to our boundaries being transgressed and us not being able to take appropriate action to rectify this.
Being with rage
Tonight, I am giving a talk for Kaylo Life on being with rage, for those who have experienced sexual assault. During my preparation for the talk, I wrote this poem:
It is not blood from open wounds
that screams down her face
It is the secret blood
The dark, pulpy blood of our mothers
Grandmothers
Sisters
Those she-wolves and nightingales
Whose calls Echo herself carries to the moon
Disembodied
They are not the tears of a broken heart or limb or mind
Which quickly, blameful, fall
They are the heavy artillery tears as hard as pomegranate seeds
Raining, soaking the stones and rock in righteous fury
She is the black Harpy
All feathers and fangs
She lives and breathes and feels and moans
Dirt upon her cheeks
Streaking wet scars of scorn,
Crying her outrage to the impartial wind
Scorching her shame on the trees
Until they burn down too
This poem, for me, speaks to the importance of being with rage and allowing it to move through us, and the destructive power of rage if we continue to suppress it or do not receive adequate support. But that’s just me - what we’re interested in here is what is true to you?
