I was seven years old, seized with dread that my beloved creatures would die before the sun rose, but terrified by the idea of descending into the basement by myself in the middle of the night to save them.
We had five tiger salamanders in a terrarium in our cellar. I had woken up at 2 am with the realization that they hadn’t been fed in days.
My father was a professor of herpetology and I regularly accompanied him on forays into the woods to look for snakes, lizards, frogs, turtles, and salamanders. This was the form of “hunting” that I grew up with—which consisted of respectful creeping through brush, streams and meadows in search of rocks and logs to turn over, looking for these creatures hidden in the marvelous loam. I remember the shape and care of my father’s hands as he cradled these delicate specimens, the open palm of his support was the way I myself was raised.
I can remember the excitement of not knowing what we would find, or when — and the breathless anticipation of overturning the rotting carcass of a fallen tree trunk to see what might be living beneath.
Of all the amphibious classes we would run across, none so commanded my awe as the tiger salamander. The color and variety of these docile, harmless, silent earth-dwellers were completely captivating to me. Finding them was truly a rare and magical experience.
On a few occasions we transported our tiger salamander specimens back home and kept them for a while in the moist environment of a dirt-and-moss filled terrarium, feeding them pieces of chopped liver on a daily basis.
I realized upon waking that it had been a number of days since I had last fed our current brood. I lay there in bed with the picture of starving and withering salamanders vivid in my mind. As their captor, I felt shame and remorse at my neglect of them.
The only problem was . . . they were in the basement.
The thought of going down there alone in the middle of the night filled me with terror. I battled internally with competing desires — first to protect myself and second to save my beautiful quadrupeds.
Finally, I dragged myself out from under the warm blankets and began the stair-creaking journey down from the upper story of the house to the main floor, where I would have to face the cellar entrance. In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t wake my parents for support, but I do remember the pressing sense of personal duty and obligation I felt for their care.
Children, I believe, naturally seek to recognize all parts of their original selves by recognizing and connecting with unique displays of nature, particularly wildlife. In retrospect, the rarity of salamanders represented all that was uncommon, delicate, unique, and worthy of protecting inside of me. The fact that such beauty was relegated to the basement—and that contact with this part of myself required a journey into darkness—I now see as an illustration of the archetypal theme found throughout mythology of descent into the “underworld.”
I finally stood in front of the white basement door. I threw the latch that held it shut from all that lurked down there in the night and, shaking, reached for the handle. I opened the door a crack, reached in, and groped for the light switch.
With the weak light of the bare bulb over the door illuminating the stairs, I inched down, step-by-step, my heart pounding out of my chest, knowing that once I reached the last step I would have to walk to the very back of the basement where the terrarium rested on top of a bookshelf. I remember how difficult it was to focus my vision in the dim light, my eyes wild with fear, expecting some monster to leap out at any moment.
No ghoul, demon, or ghost intervened, however, as I made my way to the terrarium, dreading I’d find the salamanders dead. They were indeed dehydrated and hungry, their translucent skin drawn tightly against their protruding rib cages. I opened the old margarine container with the liver stored in it, and dangled the food over one of the languishing beasts. I tickled its nose with the bait and it quickly snatched at the meal like an alligator taking a wild pig off the banks of the Nile—ravenous with hunger.
Eventually all the salamanders had been fed — all were alive — and I made my way back upstairs to the safety of my room. I can remember the extraordinary sense of triumph I felt at having braved the dead of night, fed my darlings, and made it back to bed.
Most seven-year-olds experience the same rule that threatened to paralyze me from taking action on that night:
Don’t go into dark places without your mom or dad!
And yet, when a potential that is profound, a possibility that is inspiring, or another living being that we love is in danger of perishing, we sometimes find the courage to transcend the rule of our personal fear and act on behalf of something that matters—like hidden parts of ourselves that lurk in the quiet recesses of our being. Most of us have not been trained to value or notice this potential, much less to search for it. On the contrary, we have been trained to avoid the basement where both our greatest fears and greatest loves have been confined. In fact, our greatest fears and potential are often side by side and we put rules in place to protect ourselves from getting too close to these subconscious danger zones.
But we were born to take action that preserves our sense of purpose and spirit, even when that action requires bending the rules of our terrestrial selves. What rare capacities, desires, visions, hopes, strengths, and dreams are you currently keeping in your cellar?
It is inescapably human to have fear inside of us, but it is not our destiny to live in fear.
You, dear human, are a magical creature.
Be brave, and preserve yourself.
What’s in your basement—dying to be fed?
Rick, what a captivating piece. The way you've woven together your childhood memory with deeper psychological insights feels so organic. I especially love how the physical journey to the basement mirrors the Jungian descent into the shadow self—but you've made this connection through such vivid, specific details: the weak light of the bare bulb, the translucent skin of the hungry salamanders, the careful way your father's hands cradled these creatures.
Thank you for sharing this piece that so perfectly illustrates how we grow by confronting what lurks in our personal shadows.
Love the call to go into the 'basement'. I think it's tough to see through the noise, ego and, digital interruptions to go down there. But all that Resistance is a signal to do it even more
*looks at the mirror* probably will need to do that sometime..