Time truly does pass in the blink of an eye. Three weeks ago, we piled our car high with moving boxes, for a trip that would take us to our new lives in Washington, D.C. I was surprised to see how neatly our lives, which had seemed unkempt in Boulder, fit then into so many boxes. I knew we would return, and yet, in packing our things, I felt uninvited to the task. A part of me saddened to see the items we had lived with, taken from their shelves and drawers, and packed away for a trip to another place. I have always fancied that objects–what we deem otherwise, unconscious–mark their surroundings, and witness change, as through eyes and ears. Like old men and old women who have not stirred from their spots in ages, so too, a picture gathers dust, a letter waits patiently at the bottom of a drawer, to be read once again. Perhaps they do not live, but the world is such a cold place, one needs the comfort of familiarity to make it bearable. And sometimes, it is the unlikliest of witnesses to our lives, that we cling to most jealously.
My desire for attachment is, I believe, common among all people. We long for the world to be our backyard, and to trust that we may go anywhere, and do anything without fear. In the secret corridors of our minds, we wish our lives were not so serious as they are, and that we could truly delight in the experience of living. If only we could stop racing! If only others would stop with us! We envy the animals, even as we condone their suffering.
A number of years ago, I celebrated Thanksgiving with my family. It was in a year when much of my life as it had been, was changing. I knew little where I was heading, or how the decisions I made would ultimately return to me. I was unhinged. But it did me well to have my mother and father, my sister and partner, in a single place, for a single purpose. We were together and we were happy. How little I knew, then, of the nature of life; that it changes without notice. Had I but an awareness of things as they are when they are fading, I might then have loved those moments even more than I do now. I might have memorized more from those few hours, taken notice of finer details, paid more attention to the conversation. I would not have polluted that sweet air with petty indignation, for I had been bitter over some trifling complaint. There is much I would have done to crown that moment. But I let it pass as if it were any other moment. By the end of the evening, when my family had left, already I was picking over its remains, like some poor, starving creature.
My longing as the years passed, to return to that night–and to many nights before–brought forth a resolution to keep the unopened cans of cranberry sauce and candied yams that my mother had brought that night. They are in my pantry now, seemingly untouched by time. I dare not open them, for I know I would see the dust of a mummified memory. The outside lived, even as the insides perished.
I speak often of the appearance of things: how, ironically, blindly, we trust our eyes. So it seems to us that a thing is dead, in which life’s heart beats still. And what we trust is living, may yet hide a shadow beneath its skin. We pretend that the outside is the inside; that to look upon the face is to look upon the soul.
When what we see upon that face, is a pleasure to behold, we withdraw our gaze, contented. But when we hold in our gaze, the images of suffering or pain, then we turn away and have no desire to find out why.
We console ourselves that a happy thing is happy through and through, and that a sad thing will, in time, come around to its own joy. We do not bother with its pain.
With its exterior unscathed, I can pretend that my can of cranberry sauce is the still-living witness of that happy Thanksgiving so many years ago. But I will not open the lid, lest I see Time’s ravages.
Our misuse of animals is not unlike that can.
We frame the faces of cows and chickens. We ogle them with fondness, for they seem so carefree and happy. But suppose we saw past those faces. We would see the hard life of a cow that eventually goes to slaughter. We would see it spending long hours in dark hallways, torn from its family, used, as if an interchangeable part in some monstrous machine. If we looked beyond their faces, we would see that we unwittingly condemn those animals to genocide. It is no different than when we turn our heads from the suffering of children in war-torn countries. We would rather not look beneath the surface, but refusing to look does not erase the reality of a thing.
We pretend that they feel no pain; that when we strike them, they do not bleed as we would bleed; that death is a plight unto their bodies alone, but that they are souless; their flight from this world is unfelt by their survivors. But, are we not all united on this Earth? Are we not all flesh and blood? Do we not nourish our bodies with the same waters? How different are we, really? How similar? Before you condemn an animal you never bothered to know, ask yourself: are you sure of these things? Are you sure it feels no pain? Are you sure that the way you live today is the way you should live tomorrow? The animal before you deserves at least that small consideration. And perhaps more.
January 25, 2009 at 3:37 am |
Moving from present to past to make your ending point was true writing, because the end was not what you would expect. You are reading and enjoying the moment and then you are faced with the one thing you say humans don’t want to face, the horror, the terror, the blood. By doing that you make the image that much more real and shameful. You want to stop reading, but you have gone so far you can’t you have to see it to the end. It will make the reader think and more importantly maybe change.
January 25, 2009 at 7:58 am |
What a lovey entry! The description of the Thanksgiving dinner and our trip was very evocative. Contemplating time is an ability that gives us life yet also allows the contemplation of death itself.