Division, Unity and a Fox.

The fox comes towards the kitchen window on its walk down the drive, oblivious of the watcher. Its sharp muzzle and bright eyes feel out the surroundings. The setting sun emphasises the red, russet brown and dark sleekness of its body trotting undisturbed over the tarmac towards the grass. The shape of animal intensity and intelligence exudes a kind of youthful freshness that may belie its age – ageless and sexless embodiment of a life.
The watcher, on the other hand, represents the grey/white hair of the of the turning year; his beard a determination of fatherhood and more in a world that stumbles towards the self -destruction of humanity like lemmings trying to find the nearest cliff to jump from, eyes tight shut and jabbering away. This watcher is unable to join the crowd, his eyes, though blurred by tears, are still open and he is aware of his connection with all humanity.  He, like many, regardless of gender, sexuality, wealth, education, nationality does not recognise separation in a world that is desperate to divide and destroy.
You are the watcher – an individual that is indivisible from humanity, from all that lives on this extraordinary Earth. You do not live in isolation either inwardly or outwardly, and this connection does not exist in ideas, thoughts or language. You are held in a web of life and death that exposes the ebb and flow of the tide of relationship.
However, we continue to cling onto the belief that we are involved in some kind of competition; comparing ourselves to others, desperately seeking signs of superiority and clambering over the bloodied and burnt bodies to reach the top, the summit of decay. So many global institutions are founded upon this way of being; not least schooling – that bastion of exploitation and brainwashing. 
So you are stepping out of the entertainment and acknowledging that there are no ‘others’; calmly and quietly you are stepping from the tracks that hold the speeding vastness of the runaway train. You are living as a creative human being, not self-consciously clever, not clamouring for power or status. You may dig the garden, paint pictures, film the ugliness and beauty of your surroundings. You may write words, sing songs and dance the dances. And with it you are bringing the light that can be glimpsed through the crack in the darkness of our collective misery.

The fox continues on its journey, but hesitates for a second and meets the gaze of the watcher. Its dark eyes are not reflected in the blue, for it is unaware of the watcher. Sleekly it makes a right turn and disappears under the tree, its burnished tail a flick of final copper light.  And the watcher is overwhelmed by the memory of the tiny hand of the child in its mother’s arms opening and closing, as if feeling out for the shape of this new life.

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