Fierce Mothering

Parenting tips from the Leopard

While thumbing through a magazine recently, I stopped and spent some time looking at a page that had a picture of a mother and child. In the picture, a mother sits in a rocking chair by a fireplace with a cozy fire burning perfectly within it. In her arms is an infant, blissfully asleep. The woman’s face holds a look of peace and serenity, absolute fulfillment.

Though I knew it was only some advertisement for life insurance or infant formula, the image stayed inside my head, bothering me. Finally the thought entered my mind: “That has not been my experience of motherhood,” followed by the dreaded but always dependable, “What ’s wrong with me?”

That is the question I hear myself asking whenever I cannot mach myself up to the images the media continuously blasts at me.

I have been reading about the leopard and have been surprised to find more similarities between this fierce parent and myself than this rocking chair variety. As I continue to learn about this most confident and independent cat, I find more and more qualities I wish to acquire and emulate in my role as mother.

After her cubs are born, for a period of at least 22 months, the leopard mom raises her cubs alone within her lair. The lair is the territory she has marked off, a safe space, within which she shall raise her cubs.

Within this lair, her cubs are safe. She will protect them fiercely against any sort of violation. Woe to the creature who dares to violate her, her domain or her offspring in any way.

I have been thinking about the smaller violations that we allow to slip by, thereby becoming an acceptable part of our human experience.

So often, when we hear stories about parents who engage in physical and sexual violence against their children, we shake our heads and think righteously to ourselves, “I do not do these things to my child, therefore I am a good parent.” But what about the psychological and psychic violations we commit against one another, and indeed, against our children, on a daily basis.

What about the white lies and half-truths allowed in the name of protection or excused for the sake of denial?

Would is be fair to say that for humans in western industrialized societies, some of the most dangerous spaces are our own living environments? Our own lairs?

Can you say that within your home and the immediate space that surrounds it, your child is safe? Is your child protected from all who enter this territory, as well as from you, the parent?

In Anatolia (modern day Turkey), in the Neolithic settlement of Çatal Hüyük, (established in 7500 B.C.E.) was uncovered a Leopard Shrine. On the wall of this deep, encompassing room were found the reliefs of two large leopards, face to face, between two tall spires. These leopards, as well as the shrine, possessed layer upon layer of paint, indicating generation after generation of use.

Indeed the leopard deity is omnipresent at Çatal Hüyük, her stunning rosettes a theme threading itself through what remains of this community in patterns of weaving, painted wall borders, adorning sculptures of full-bodied women.

Priestesses of the past entered her shrine; they lit the torches in the spires. As the huge cats danced between the flickering flames, they danced — invoking her power, praying for guidance.

The leopard mom leaves the lair to hunt for food for herself and her cubs. In the world outside, she is a master hunter. Slowly, in calculated fashion, she stalks her prey. With the use of exceptional hearing and acute sense of smell, she intelligently executes a kill, expending no more energy than necessary, taking only what she needs.

She can leap, jump astounding heights, even with a young deer hanging from her jaw. There are very few obstacles in her way.

Between hunts, she stays in the lair with her cubs. Through the use of play she teaches them how to fight, how to stalk, but more important, the leopard mom teaches her cubs how to trust and use their supreme natural instincts.

It is these they will need to maneuver effectively through the world outside the lair. It is these they must pay attention to, the radar screen they must learn to read. When they leave her, there will be no question in her mind that they will be ready.

We — human moms — on the other hand, are expected to train our children out of their instincts. Calling it socialization, we teach them to be ‘nice’ when they don’t feel ‘nice;’ to be ‘quiet’ when they want to speak, to repress their anger, hide their sadness, ignore their own frustration. We instruct them, through shining example, to never name or even recognize the violation inflicted upon them by others.

When I consider the world we now live in, the outside we will be sending our children into, it seems absurd to train them to ignore their built-in, instinctual wisdom. How is this different than declawing a cat before sending her into the forest?

I am only now learning to advocate on my own child’s behalf. It is a difficult task, because it means learning how to advocate for myself at the same time. It means unlearning much of what I was taught. It makes me aware of how fearful I am, and that makes me angry. It is difficult learn assertiveness as an adult woman. I do not wish it for my daughter.

She now knows it. I must fight to let her keep it.

The shame and embarrassment I feel when she uses her instincts and advocates for herself stuns and surprises me. My tongue wants to say, “Oh, it’s all right. Don’t pay attention,” or “Don’t take it so personally.” I bite down, recognizing my own desire to pacify.

I cringe at the sound of my own nervous laugher when she looks into the eyes of an adult and calls them on their abuse of power.

Because I know it is these instincts she will need to use to kick and scream and punch anyone who dares lay a hand on her; because to form any sense of her own authentic being, to be able to look at her self in the mirror and like what she sees, she must know how to stand up for herself, I will not tell her to be quiet. I will not ‘correct’ her.

I will hold the images of the world we live in within a separate, rational part of my head, knowing that training her out of her intuition compromises her safety and well-being. Myself I shall allow to stumble, clumsy and vulnerable, through the journey back towards my own instinctual wisdom.

To the leopard mom I shall turn for strength, knowing that the safety of her cubs is more important to her than what the other leopards may think or say about her.

Into the leopard shrine I shall go, dancing her dance, invoking her power, praying for guidance, as I fight to not lower my eyes from the truth — as I strive to name it: out there lies a dangerous place for a female. My daughter will need more than her claws.

© Theresa C. Dintino

A different version of this article first appeared in SageWoman Magazine, №38 Summer 1997.