Sometimes I wonder if I might have been Irish in a former life. Not that I believe in past lives. I don’t disbelieve it, but it’s just one of those things that I don’t know for certain, one way or another, so I don’t hold an opinion. The Irish thing… It’s hard to explain. Sort of a sense of home and understanding or a kinship of sorts. Who knows Maybe I was just hormonal when I took in some Irish tale years ago, and it made such a deep and lasting impact within my mind that it got tangled up with bonafide memories and impressions.
In a similar manner, I sometimes wonder if I had tribal origins in another past life. There are times when I have such a strong yearning for that simple tribal life in which one lives to survive. There is no eight-to-five slogging through a day job followed by a mad frenzy to fit life into the remaining hours before doing it all over again. There is just life. Just survival. One’s work makes sense. Food, water, shelter. The basic necessities of life. One lives from day to day to meet these needs. Somehow there seems to be meaning in this. There is no television. There are no shopping malls. At the end of the day, they rest. I don’t suppose it’s all that different from the modern life, but the meaning can sometimes be so elusive. Where is the sense of content I think that might be more of what I’m truly yearning.
I must also take care not to romanticize these tribal yearnings, and acknowledge the savage side. It’s not idyllic. What of the uprisings and slaughter People have been killing people since the dawn of time, with little or no provocation or grounds. It’s senseless. So senseless.
MG manages the movie queue. We’ve seen three difficult films recently. Blood Diamond, the Constant Gardener, and Syriana. All films depicting the tragic plight of people. It’s hard to see things like this, in which the films are based on true historical events. It’ s hard to acknowledge the plight of people, and feel helpless as to what to do. I was convinced I should adopt an orphan, and pored through the internet reading about orphan adoptions. It was so sobering. It’s hard to take in all the pain and need that there is in the world, and know that there is very little I can do about it. It’s hard to know what, if anything, I can or should do. Perhaps one day I will adopt a child to grow up with my Boo Boy.
I pondered these things heavily for several days, filled with anxiety and anguish. In a moment of deep anxiety I cast my eyes about my home, and noticed my wilting violets, which sparked a stream of thoughts that jolted me back to reality. Wilting violets, wilting body. How qualified am I to reach out and try to tend the world’s garden when I neglect the care of my own body, my own home, my own garden
I have work to do, here and now. That is what I should be doing.
Wake up, girl.
