Quite the Life (and all in Times New Roman 10pt!)
To survive in The Wild, one must pay attention.
Two-Legs pay selective attention. We devote the majority of our neural resources to whatever interests us at the moment.
Which is why we – the modern “we” – don’t do well in The Wild.
Pay too much attention to any one thing and some other one thing snatches you.
Pay too much attention to any dozen things and some other dozen things snatch you.
One learns to be broad-minded, accepting of all information, in The Wild.
It’s a survival thing.
It has been a while since we saw Erasmus.
Ever shy, ever watchful Erasmus.
Knowing the expected lifespan of Coyote in The Wild, I know he doesn’t have many seasons left with us.
We are here for just a little while.
No matter how long one lives, there is always something older, me thinks, to mourn our passing.
Back in my preaching days, I realized there were few pains greater than a parent outliving their children.
Although not genetically linked (unless you go way, way back), I tend to think of all The Wild as my children.
I’ve learned so much from them. Not sure what they’ve learned from me.
The Old Ones‘ first lesson is to be wise and, seeing the world around me, I doubt many willing to learn that lesson remain.
I will mourn the passing of my children.
Who is there who’ll mourn with me?
Who will be left to mourn me?
Last week it was Rabbit, this week it’s Coyote.
Probably because it’s that time of year.
The Wild wakes (not that it ever sleeps) and everyone comes out parading their young.
Kind of like an Easter parade, don’t you think?
And Easter…that christian new life/resurrection thing, that coming out of the cave, out of the earth, out of death, the big sleep as it were…
Why do you think the church decided Easter coincides with Spring?
Everybody honors The Wild even when they don’t mean to.
Rabbits – at least the kind we have here in southern New Hampshire – are not good parents.
At least not good mothers.
At least in human terms.
Wild rabbits here in southern New Hampshire neither warren nor den. They spend their time above ground and out in the open.
Their young, likewise, are born above ground and in the open. If anything, they may have a cushion of leaves to lie back on.
But not grass. Grass is food to rabbits.
Rabbit mothers leave their kits (baby rabbits are called “kits” or “kitties” and “bunnies” in the vulgate) unprotected while they go off wining and dining and such.
We’d call Family Services if that happened.
Maybe we would.
People have a habit of minding other people’s business and ignoring their own when it suits them.
Back to Bunlets (our term for tiny little baby bunnies).
Thank goodness for their dun coloring.
Good camouflage, that.
And we must also consider that The Wild has perfected rabbits to survive.
At least for now.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
I mean, what if The Wild is doing the same to us?
Just think of all those Family Services people without a job…
Ah, youth.
Mine is gone many years, except in my heart when I gaze upon Susan (wife/partner/Princess).
She is my delight and my joy.
Together forty-six years, married forty of them, not always easy, not always nice, and wonderful to remember.
We knew early on we weren’t suited to have children. Anybody who knows my personal history knows I had no good models for parenting, and I openly worried my parents’…flaws?…methods. Yes, that’s better, methods of parenting would cause any children I had harm. As it was, I didn’t do my first wife proud except for the fact I left her, again knowing I was not suited to be a good husband, provider, and father.
I often consider that one of my first rational thoughts, recognizing how flawed I was.
Still have flaws, of course, and they are different ones, hopefully less vexsome ones, more along the line of liking a good superhero movie every once in a while because I need to veg out for a while.
And all that noted, I sometimes regret not having children.
A friend of mine recently had her tubes tied, so abhorrent was the thought of having children to her.
I chided her.
“Children are wonderful,” I told her. “Lightly roasted with a little salt, they’re delicious.”
Budda-boom!
And I still appreciate The Wild‘s sharing its younth with us.