Road Kill Rescues
Not Again. Not anymore.
Sometimes we do what there is to do. Sometimes it is better to leave things as they lie.
Sometimes, we are here to discern the difference, if there is one, to let our hearts lead and let the litter lie. Another’s moccasins are not part of our journey. We can learn to respect their design, yet cross to the other side. Not our lane, not our yoga mat.
We can be like fox, carrying camouflage medicine, stealth, and adaptability. We can live our light without insisting on carrying it for another. We can shine, and what we love may perhaps be guided to self-ignite.
Oh look, poor thing… and so it begins.
S/he has potential, could have a different life, could shine… only s/he/they have other agendas, other lives, other lines to live out. Who am I to disagree? Who is anyone to deny?
The Corporate Kill Zone
They want your blood. They live for their esteemed bottom line, that feeds only designer pockets, elevates only rarefied egos. To where, exactly? A line in the sand that tramples in the dust all hearts that beat true, or as one.
And when hearts protest, the response is ever the same, “who are you to have a voice?”
Who are you, not to?
The Road
There is a highway that carries only airport traffic. On one side is the airport, its car parks, terminals and planes. On the other, is long term parking, and, further along, the ubiquitous shopping mall. Said highway is crossed only by shuttle traffic… and prairie dogs.
Local joke, “this is where prairie dogs come to die.” And so it seems. This highway is ever host to a littering of prairie dog carcasses, never seeming to rest free of their voluntary demise. There must be hundreds. How can this be?
Once upon a traversal, I watched a prairie dog dart from one side of the highway, surely to make the other side, thought I. And yet, at the approach of an eighteen-wheeler, it neither ran nor fought, neither did it freeze, but sat mid-lane, bravely erect, to meet its crushing end. Bloody, that one. Not so benign as the tan and dusty bodies gracing either side.
“This person could have another life. S/he/they are configured for it!” It is said that, for each of us, there is a road, a path that leads to enlightenment. Masters joke that one often has to walk every road to find the one that resonates. Is it so? Or do we tire, like the prairie dogs, of the constant quest for the other side?
Is it better to stand up and face the oncoming toxicity/poisons of manipulated slaughter? Is there another way we could live that sustains and supports our lives?
Listen children, and you will hear, the midnight whisper of an awakened ear. Are you listening? Can you hear the High Trail calling? It is we who choose.
Watch closely, now. Observe the ruts, the trenches, dug so deep that safety, no matter how toxic, seems to lie therein.
“No dumping. These drains flow to the ocean.” Will we listen? Do we care?
Self-love does not live there anymore. Did it ever? Once upon a time?
So many roles. So many lives. So many experiences. Diamonds and dust. What opportunities were there that have been passed by? What if no one wants to see through illusion or have the lights turned on early? Is this missed opportunity, or simply agenda that will not be denied?
One life this time, one body, so many circumstances, so many pretty pictures accumulated before we move on.
With every ending, comes a new beginning.
We are there. Can we guess, what the prairie dogs know?
Life is a wonder. Let your heart lead. Let the litter lie.
Better yet, stop wasting, stop trashing. Just say “no,” and go.
The langoliers* will take care of the rest.
The term Langoliers borrowed from the story by Stephen King.