Days of cruelty and hatred, days of fear and greed, days of gunshots, insults, tears of children: frigid days of grieving families and laughing prison guards.
Our Greek ancestors would call a time like this an Age of Iron. Such ages are only mere flickers of earlier, kinder times. Humans have “grown so wicked they will worship power; might will be right to them, and reverence for the good will cease to be.” Edith Hamilton wrote these words in a time of war, in 1940, her precursor of now, our own dark times, our wars against each other.
What to do? How not to hate those who hate you?
To celebrate long winter nights, a friend gave me a brown sphere, about the size of my fist. It had papery skin and green, blade-like wings emerging from its crown. Just looking at it helped to calm my hatred, anger, and frustration. I put it in a pail of dirt on a window sill, gave it a drink of water and began to draw it. After a few days it looked like this, phallic and vulvic at the same time.
In the next few posts I’ll draw for you how it opened itself and how I listened as it whispered and unfolded its arms.
Meanwhile:
The temple bell stops
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers—Basho (1644-1694)