Spring has sprung. We come upon the time when Inanna or Ishtar was hung naked
on a stake and Eostre, the great northern goddess whose symbol was a rabbit or
hare, caused the eggs and hot cross buns. Maybe. We celebrate escape from
slavery in Egypt and loving all our neighbors, even when they employ gardening
services. Warmth has brought out the flowers, and Mexicans with loud machines.
Six, sometimes seven days a week, trucks with trailers pull up to give yards
hereabouts the mow and blow treatment, making ungodly amounts of noise.
Seeking to rest a knee that seemed to object either to my own cleanup after the
storm or to tennis (possibly both) I went to sit on the bench in a patch of sun
out back. Hamish was the first to arrive.
“You want that stick chewed? I could chew it for you.”
I said I didn’t mind one way or another.
“All right then, I’ll start at one end and work my way forward.”
He was as good as his word.
Four chickens wandered by, evenly spaced, moving like an infantry patrol.
“Afternoon!” they nodded politely as they passed. I gave them a polite nod
back. They reached the food container, helped themselves, returned.
“Got any food?”
“He’s usually got food.”
“I can’t see it.”
“No, I can’t either. Must be something small or invisible.”
“Would invisible food taste good?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
I said, “I can hear you, you know. I’m just being peaceful.”
Cheddar looked me in the eye. “Is that a good thing in a god?”
Appenzeller, “Aren’t gods supposed to be mighty?”
Pecorino, “We’re relying on your ability to smite. North Koreans and so on.”
Cheddar, “North Koreans and Malawians.”
Pecorino, “We have friendly relations with Malawi. We sent an ambassador.”
Appenzeller, “I think she’s gone walkabout.”
Cheddar, “You do that in Australia, not Malawi.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
Mimo shushed them and asked permission to approach the bench. “The other god
seems to have become invisible and now you’re apparently offering us invisible
food. What gives?”
“Gives?” Cheddar echoed.
Appenzeller pointed out that they had no way of knowing that the food was
invisible. Maybe it wasn’t actually present. Mimo heard, “a present,” and
there was a tangential discussion about gods’ gift giving and where that fits
in the Natural Order. They seemed very reluctant to invite me into the
conversation. It was as if I too had become invisible.
Finally I suggested that they might like to develop moral guideline to help
them through moments of doubt. “How about a few commandments?”
“Aren’t those properly within the divine realm?” Pecorino seemed happy to shift
the burden of responsibility. “I mean why put in the intellectual effort to
develop a philosophy when you’ve got a god?”
“Two gods,” Mimo.
“There,” I said, “we may have to distinguish facts that obtained in the past
from facts we know to be true in the present.”
Mimo, “What’s he on about, ’obtained?’ I obtain food. I obtain water. If I
need facts I’ll obtain them too. It’s *we* who do the hardscrabble work of
obtaining, chickens!”
“Gods must get food from somewhere.” Cheddar reasoned. “There’s probably a
garden over yonder, stocked with stuff. Maybe just beyond the fence?”
“An invisible garden filled with invisible food?” Pecorino was stunned by
boldness of the notion.
I said, “There’s no invisible food but there is an invisible god. What I mean
is, one god has left the premises.”
Cheddar was appalled, “You’ve crucified her? Like Ishtar?”
Appenzeller, “Our god’s wrathful!”
Pecorino seemed pleased, “Told you he could smite!”
They made klaxon warning noises and ran up and down. “Emergency, emergency,
everyone for to leave street.”
“All I meant,” I explained quickly, “is that god number two has moved to an
apartment. She’ll be here to visit and to clean out your accommodation from
time to time, but I’m in sole charge now.”
“Which is why you’re holding invisible food?”
“I am not holding invisible food.”
“Prove it.”
“What you need,” I said, “is a moral compass.”
Mimo became huffy, “We can obtain our own moral compass thank you very much.
No need to trouble yourself.”
And away they went.
Meanwhile Hamish had been working on his stick. “Nearly done,” he said,
wagging away. “Then can we chase squirrels?”
“No hurry,” I said. “Next year I think we should have tulips in the back as
well as the front.”
Wag, wag, wag.
Cheddar came running back, “I remembered…Wensleydale had a moral compass. It
was kind of witchy.”
“Witchy? What was it called?”
“Hexistentialism.”
I’m reading a book about the loss of words which once named things, Robert
Macfarlane, “Landmarks.” It’s dense, wonderful, slow going, like a hike across
difficult terrain. My mind keeps returning to seeds which sprouted in the
drainage channels of our un-garaged cars. They survived trips through the car
wash. My first thought was that they are “underdogs.” I like underdogs in
sports, but then I realized what an underdog must have been—a dog that lost a
dog fight. There’s nothing dog-like about a sprout. So I looked up “weed.”
“Of unknown origin.”
That’ll do, weed. That’ll do.
People say that when you hear praise your head may swell. Yesterday I heard
some praise about how fast my hands are in tennis and my knee swelled. Odd
that. I’m happy to report that it has returned to normal. As normal as
anything hereabouts.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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