“So this, I believe, is the central question upon which all creative living hinges: Do you have the courage to bring forth the treasures that are hidden within you?”
—Elizabeth Gilbert
I recently completed a weeklong artist residency with Twenty Summers in Provincetown, Massachusetts (you might recall the series of talks we hosted at our gathering there last summer). I spent my days writing in the historic Hawthorne Barn, enjoying the camaraderie of other queer people in a town that has always been a sanctuary for us, and communing with nature. Mostly though, I was grateful for the gift of uninterrupted days to inquire into creativity itself at a time when AI has left me feeling existential about it. While doing so, three foxes crossed my path.
Foxeswield magic. When red foxes hunt, they use a technique known as mousing. Even in the dead of winter, they can be spotted skulking across meadows, ears erect as they attempt to pinpoint the precise location of a rodent scurrying beneath blankets of snow. Once the location of its prey has been determined, the fox leaps into the air and strikes from above. But how, exactly, is it able to be successful in this approach when it is unable to see its target?
Over the course of two years, researchers in the Czech Republic studied wild red foxes to try and unravel the mysteries of their mousing. They recorded over 600 jumps by 84 foxes and noticed a pattern: When prey was invisible beneath the snow, the foxes jumped at exactly 20 degrees off from magnetic north. This yielded a 73% success rate when they jumped in this direction, versus 18% in other directions. And it wasn’t due to environmental cues; they did these regardless of the weather, wind, or time of day. Rather, they use a more creative approach.
It turns out, these foxes harness an unseen force. The scientists who conducted the study determined that the only conclusion was that red foxes use the Earth’s magnetic field to guide them—a kind of rangefinder that helps them determine the exact distance of the mouse in order to make a precise pounce. The fox listens and waits for the moment that the mouse’s location aligns with the slope of the Earth and then strikes. This allows accuracy even when the target is invisible (when the foxes can see their prey, they jump from any angle).
During my artist residency, I hosted a writing kinship workshop for helping people connect with the more-than-human world. I led everyone through a guided meditation and then a series of writing prompts focused on animals. A woman who sat next to me, visiting from Boston, chose to write about foxes. Weeks later, she wrote to me explaining how she had followed an inkling to come to that event, and shared the significance of the experience for her—all thanks to her decision to follow an intangible pull. Creativity asks that of us.
In the time since that workshop, I found myself on a Zoom call with a witch who saw a fox run across her yard as she peered into my unconscious. Days later, I pulled a fox card from my tarot deck while sitting for tea—a reminder to stay curious. It is my most cherished part of writing this newsletter: paying attention to what wants to be written. I think all creative ventures are collaborations with the unseen. Elizabeth Gilbert writes of this in Big Magic, how ideas are entities that are seeking a partner to bring them into the world.
When I think of foxes, I think of my brother who has always loved them. Also a queer writer, we have a bond that I cherish. For years, we have been writing a nonfiction book about magic together. We have toiled over plot and prose over many long phone calls, wrestling with the complexities of worldbuilding. Sure, we could use AI and be finished already, but what would be the point? The magnetism of a new idea, the leap of faith, the joy of landing it—these are the reasons I write. To live a creative life is to follow the foxes that appear on our path.
Biome
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