When we think about how we rewild the natural world around us, we are forced to confront the question of how we rewild ourselves. After all, how can we change something on the outside that remains unchanged on the inside? Isn’t the outside that we create always just a projection of ourselves, and how dreary must we feel when we look at the state of the world, our modern, gray architecture, the weapons we build, the poison we dump into our rivers?
But how can a dog become a wolf again if the dog no longer knows who it used to be? He feels an inner desire, an inner drive that he can’t quite satisfy, but he doesn’t manage to categorize it. Why does it drive him inwardly to run after the deer, to follow the scent, to sprint through the forest? And yet all a dog knows is to lead a dog’s life, just as a cow would never think that generations ago her relatives once roamed for miles through wild alluvial valleys.

Isn’t it the same with us (Western) people? Don’t we feel an inner drive, an inner emptiness that we can’t get filled, and at the same time we can’t get it sorted? Aren’t we also dogs who have forgotten that they were once wolves? The question of what a good life means for us humans is probably as old as humanity itself. Philosophers have put forward all kinds of theories, discussed and argued, and still haven’t got to the heart of the matter. Because there is no one good way of life for us humans, we are more adaptable and flexible than any other animal. We can choose how we want to live. And this choice puts us in the miserable position of the knowing, conscious human being like no other animal.