Wildcavy
Well-known Member
Cavy Gazer
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2011
- Posts
- 1,008
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2011
- Messages
- 1,008
Picckalo and Grace are in newly-wed love. They clearly are bonded, but Picckalo in particular cannot quite seem to sort out the relationship. He daily shows more Super Boar characteristics, rumbling and strutting with such determination that his poor arthritic, semi-paralytic hindquarters waddle frantically, with a mind of their own. He occasionally catches up with Grace, and tries to do the Dominance Dance, but whenever he gets closer than a nose-touch, she popcorns and bolts. He has never once gotten far enough to mount her.
Grace, however, is full of agile beans. She creeps up behind Picckalo, usually while he is grazing or thoughtfully chewing his pellets, and abruptly shoves her nose into his testicles. The result never varies. Picckalo manages a sort of vertical jump, with a quarter spin, and tries to show her who the Boar of the house is. By this time, Grace is at the other end of the pen, lounging in her pink butterfly cuddle cup, as if nothing ever happened.
I suppose there is no coincidence that Picckalo has started to drag both of their pellet bowls to one end, clacking them together, and doing food possession patrol. He will stride back and forth around them, and as she approaches, there is a two- or three-minute ritual of him blocking Grace. Eventually they both settle down to their pellets or salads, with that blank look humans get when reading the back of the cereal box at breakfast.
The rest of the day, they lounge next to each other, slurping hay and dozing. Hundreds of miles to find a soul mate. No anticipation. One day, alone. The next day, not. A gift received without wondering why it was given.
This peace is unknown to me. It is not that it is “not my strong point,” as they say. It is that it is entirely outside of my experience, my being. How do you strengthen a void? Multiply a thousand times by zero, and you will still end up with nothing.
I go back to writing business plans, story boards, budgets. Coordinating the household calendars. Deciding that we will eat on the good china, the wedding gifts, every day. Plotting schooling, housing, long-term care for the boys. And for myself. All things, good and bad, that can be anticipated, organized, placed on a list.
Living in the moment can be a matter of desperation. There was a woman who used to sit, cross-legged, on the sidewalk by the art museum in Harare, with her daughter on her lap. The woman was blue-eyed blind, while the girl sat with pus-caked eyelids. We were younger, my friends and I, and would quietly slip a dollar or two in her cup. I was never sure. Was it better to buy her some sudza and meat relish, or to give her cash? It was not the matter that it is here in the U.S. – I had no fear that she would go off and buy alcohol or drugs. But what would be the easiest for her? And what, at the end of the day, would make me feel less helpless? I remain unsure of my motivation. Giving alms to a fellow traveler? Or assuaging a conscience burdened by how I was born?
Living in the moment can also be an act of denial. If I choose not to prepare for anything, I may persuade myself that there is nothing to fear in the world. This was a little easier for those few brief moments at the university, when I had free time and a life ahead of me. But it wasn’t peace; it was procrastination.
Living in the moment can be simple resignation. If the world is entirely fated to be, every single action pre-ordained, then there is no point in reflection or anticipation. The universe will serve to me what has already been decided. It is better for me to shed my anxiety, because any struggle will be fruitless. Things will be what they were chosen to be. Just not chosen by me. And thus of questionable value.
I do not know how to translate “living in the moment” to mean “being at peace.” I can study any language that I want, but this language of the peaceful soul tangles my cynical tongue. I find more comfort in the illusion of control.
I look over to the cavy pens just now. Picckalo is hunkered under the corner fleece forest, angling himself toward Grace, who grooms herself a couple of feet away. I am not sure if he even believes he can catch her, but he clearly likes to try. And Grace quietly, impishly, accepts this.
Grace, however, is full of agile beans. She creeps up behind Picckalo, usually while he is grazing or thoughtfully chewing his pellets, and abruptly shoves her nose into his testicles. The result never varies. Picckalo manages a sort of vertical jump, with a quarter spin, and tries to show her who the Boar of the house is. By this time, Grace is at the other end of the pen, lounging in her pink butterfly cuddle cup, as if nothing ever happened.
I suppose there is no coincidence that Picckalo has started to drag both of their pellet bowls to one end, clacking them together, and doing food possession patrol. He will stride back and forth around them, and as she approaches, there is a two- or three-minute ritual of him blocking Grace. Eventually they both settle down to their pellets or salads, with that blank look humans get when reading the back of the cereal box at breakfast.
The rest of the day, they lounge next to each other, slurping hay and dozing. Hundreds of miles to find a soul mate. No anticipation. One day, alone. The next day, not. A gift received without wondering why it was given.
This peace is unknown to me. It is not that it is “not my strong point,” as they say. It is that it is entirely outside of my experience, my being. How do you strengthen a void? Multiply a thousand times by zero, and you will still end up with nothing.
I go back to writing business plans, story boards, budgets. Coordinating the household calendars. Deciding that we will eat on the good china, the wedding gifts, every day. Plotting schooling, housing, long-term care for the boys. And for myself. All things, good and bad, that can be anticipated, organized, placed on a list.
Living in the moment can be a matter of desperation. There was a woman who used to sit, cross-legged, on the sidewalk by the art museum in Harare, with her daughter on her lap. The woman was blue-eyed blind, while the girl sat with pus-caked eyelids. We were younger, my friends and I, and would quietly slip a dollar or two in her cup. I was never sure. Was it better to buy her some sudza and meat relish, or to give her cash? It was not the matter that it is here in the U.S. – I had no fear that she would go off and buy alcohol or drugs. But what would be the easiest for her? And what, at the end of the day, would make me feel less helpless? I remain unsure of my motivation. Giving alms to a fellow traveler? Or assuaging a conscience burdened by how I was born?
Living in the moment can also be an act of denial. If I choose not to prepare for anything, I may persuade myself that there is nothing to fear in the world. This was a little easier for those few brief moments at the university, when I had free time and a life ahead of me. But it wasn’t peace; it was procrastination.
Living in the moment can be simple resignation. If the world is entirely fated to be, every single action pre-ordained, then there is no point in reflection or anticipation. The universe will serve to me what has already been decided. It is better for me to shed my anxiety, because any struggle will be fruitless. Things will be what they were chosen to be. Just not chosen by me. And thus of questionable value.
I do not know how to translate “living in the moment” to mean “being at peace.” I can study any language that I want, but this language of the peaceful soul tangles my cynical tongue. I find more comfort in the illusion of control.
I look over to the cavy pens just now. Picckalo is hunkered under the corner fleece forest, angling himself toward Grace, who grooms herself a couple of feet away. I am not sure if he even believes he can catch her, but he clearly likes to try. And Grace quietly, impishly, accepts this.
