grakkesse

liFe in Dminor

I came across an instance of feline roadkill on the weekend. It was on the main drag that brings traffic to and past our part of the world, and Sunday road etiquette being in place, i.e. not the usual asinine cutthroat protocol, traffic was mindfully pulling wide around said carcass. I admit I was surprised, space being at the crushing premium that it is on the Fantasy Island. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to relieve that mangled corpse from any prospect of further indignity, and fetching a handy bit of debris from a nearby bin, swept it two feet to kerbside. Seeing it up close, I understood a bit more of the word visceral. All day long, something inside felt displaced, almost like part of gravity losing its hold, leaving me slightly untethered, although not completely unhinged. No, can’t have that. Not the least of the reasons for this… mild misalignment was the thought, bouncing inside my head like a caged canary, that the violently dead cat had coloring that bore some resemblance to our erstwhile pet, MaoZedong, who’d wandered off one night months ago, and failed to return. What if what if what if. For all the breezy stylised violence we watch on less and less make-believe TV, real violence, when it happens, is not a channel you can switch off. I can’t, at any rate. I’m just waiting for the commercial break to come on.

But actually, on that afternoon, I had a conversation with a friend whose next holiday is a hunting one. I imagine they’ll be seeing quite a bit of viscera, provided they are successful. More to the point I guess, if they are hunting for meat, it at least means the burden of stepping over that line, and I think there is a line where you are willing to end an animal’s life, rests with the person who will consume the meat. If it weren’t just down to the abbatoirs to step that line, maybe we’d be eating a lot less meat. Or maybe I’m just squeamish and actually most people are comfortable with that line. Most farmers probably are. Or maybe there isn’t really a line? 

Then on Monday, I turned up to a worship event with a Jewish lady at our miniverse village. I thought it was a bit out of character for Bec&Col to block out a whole day and commandeer the attendance of most of the population, so we could worship with the one extra person on band. Well we did spend the entire day there, playing a total of 6 Hebrew songs over and over. You’d think that would be boring as pants, but it wasn’t. It resonated. The inheritance and birthright of Israel is ours to share, but almost none of us had ever reached for it – like the ancestral village you’ve never visited because life takes place here and now, and somewhere I’ve never been? Irrelevant. But then when you do visit, the breadth and depth of these your origins snap into place, deep-rooted, anchoring your soul. I felt unreasonably, or at least unaccountably, and viscerally affected by our day of music in minor key. In a good way. Like I found a piece of the puzzle. Selah.

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