To describe something as ferocious conjures up a jungle image of a lion, doesn’t it? Perhaps a tiger. Maybe even a bear. It’s a word you might use in discussing one’s appetite, sexual desire, ambition, a bad case of chiggers or the Santa Ana winds.
It’s often associated with the young. As in those for whom youth is wasted. Or a brave soldier in battle surviving against all odds. Cancer that ravages a body is said to be ferocious in its assault. It is lean. It is strong. It is determined.
Ferocity is a characteristic that’s hard to maintain but when its how I live my life in regard to the love I feel for my husband and my son (and truth be told the loving care that I should apply toward myself as well) it is these moments when I feel incredible, heady, alive. To observe a robin angling for a worm in the grass or the breeze playing through the leaves or the laughter of children or the awe-inspiring human achievement of lift off at Cape Canaveral or the indescribable taste of a perfect peach — these are the moments for me that speak: ferocious. No holds barred. Bam! Life is amazing and good and delicious.
I want me some more of that!