A wild couple of days of storm have passed. Now the fog and wind are all that remain of the tempest.
The weather seems to reflect the national mood, creating a milieu that is mythic. Somewhere out there, in the deep fog, one imagines people stirring cauldrons and chanting ancient phrases.
Here, deeply embedded in the natural world, one may find some distance from the vicissitudes of the everyday world. There is balm in the presence of other lives, a reminder that our small dramas are social constructs that say little about the value of individuals.
Still, I awoke to the thought that all those in charge of governance should be forced to lead lives of disability and receive only the supports available through the social compact rather than those that come from wealth and influence. Such thoughts are hardly generous, reflecting some deep hurt and anger that surely come from a near lifetime of disability. I am keenly aware that the anger arises even though I am relatively insulated from the harsh blows of greed and fate.
That said, I doubt the osprey care much about the social consequences of disability, the simple task of hunting for breakfast in the wind and fog being a much more immediate problem.
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