It seems no matter how much I try to keep my blogs and podcasts light and easy, life at times insists I make them heavy duty.
I am watching a small blue fish less than two inches long struggle for breath. “Blue Boy,” as I have come to call him, had survived an injured tail fin from a previous mishap. Now I watch him flipping that broken fin, struggling to move. To a fish, movement is life, and I feel the same way. If I ever stop moving, I will die.
I have witnessed this struggle before in the small water world that I am god over. This little environment needs me to keep it ecologically safe and the lives that dwell there alive. They depend on me, and when something goes wrong, it is my failure. They didn’t screw it up, their lord—I—did. Unlike us humans, they don’t have a choice.
As I watch this small life fading, Chloe Cat comes to my feet and meows. It’s dinner time, and she needs clean water, fresh food, a warm place to sleep, and lots of love. Chloe, like my past furry four-legged friends, will only be in my world for a short time, and ours is the only world she knows. It is absolutely unconditional that I make her precious life as safe and happy as I can. I wonder why we can’t always feel the same about our fellow human travelers in this short life span we are given.
I spent a lot of time in battles today I knew I couldn’t win. I have a god-awful habit of doing that. I’m still swinging at windmills and trying to send fast balls into the bleachers. As I watched, a small fish struggled for air, took one last breath, one fin still attempting to swim, then he died. I wondered why I spent such intellectual capital fighting that battle. Someday I’ll struggle for my own last breath.
My family dates so far back into southern ancestry and aristocracy that if you do a search of the name Sanders during the Civil War, you’ll find the books and bloody ground are littered with it, and yes, it is part of my blood line. I was born in Fort Sanders Hospital in Knoxville, Tennessee. My dad was from South Carolina, and my mom, a Cherokee, was born in the mountains of Tennessee and oppressed just as much as African-Americans. I have no love of my long line of southern history, deservedly blown to hell in the Civil War. I feel no sense of loss on the removal of the Confederate flag. Family members on my dad’s side, the privileged, tried to maintain a life based on oppressing and murdering other human beings, but I did not adopt their standards. The Confederate flag is a shameful rag and nothing more.
There are more thoughts on this subject and other things on the shores of Rambling Harbor. Join me there.