Drought

We need to stop to remember, and then keep walking

Listen to me read this post if you like:

In a drought, they say death doesn’t come from thirst, but from starvation.

This is why they walk away from dwindling water and no food. They are on borrowed time, their legs heavy, stomachs gnawing, skin sagging.

And still they stop. For on their pilgrimage home—a place their matriarch, their lead mama, knows is covered in dry grasses and exactly-not-a-drop of water, she clings to hope of rain and wagers dry grasses are better than no grasses—on this long walk, they find the remains of their kin.

Photo by Grant Durr on Unsplash

They gather—one, two, three, four, all—together and in turns—around the desiccated skull. It rests on ground broken. Dust swirls in the wind rendering wild west showdown vibes.

Wah-wah-wah.

But there are no cowboys. It’s not sundown.

Their paces are gentle and toward one another. And there are no arms of any kind in sight.

They caress the skull, feeling the tusks, the cranial plates, the contours of the eye sockets—portals to the empty cavity where once there was surely a conscience.

I know because they have stopped.

Even as death scratches their insides, they make time and space for grief-reverence-gratitude, their trunks two-directional conduits channeling love and learning. Their flesh, their consciousness, and their consciences, are too-thin membranes separating them from the not-yet-fossil-but-when-do-we-call-it-that.

They say elephants never forget.

Their stop is risky, but they know walking by is riskier. Spiritual death advances more quickly than thirst or starvation and takes hold among the living.

As I watch this scene unfold, this tender heart-rending, impossible-but-happening stop, I wonder,

How can there be a debate over animal consciousness? Over whether non-human animals have consciences?

I am thousands of miles away from the new bones. The most recent bones. These bones are still covered in flesh, lying in a morgue.

Were they scraped or cradled from the brittle, curled up, cracking hellscape of America’s streets?

Dust devils the size of Trump’s towers emerge somehow from the pavement covered in a thin blanket of snow.

I write and say lots of words about interspecies empathy. About everything, really. I love words. I love writing and reading and talking (listening, too, though admittedly a growth area). One of my favorite references (you can call it tired if you want, but I call it consistent) is a quote by anti-apartheid racial justice warrior, religious leader, and winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, Desmond Tutu:

“My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.”

I agree. And I think there’s more.

I believe our collective humanity is caught up in the wholeness of this big blue-and-green ball we call Earth—and in the wellbeing of all the species with whom we share this place and moment.

Sometimes these ideals and ideas of interspecies empathy seem so far-fetched. Quaint. That’s cute, Becca. How can we empathize with a dolphin—or a house fly—if we can’t (Don’t? Won’t?) feel with our own brethren? Sistren. Kinfolk. How can we know-know a tree as our grandmother and honor her as a relative? Recognize her wisdom? How can we do this when we take the lives of other humans and demonize them while their bodies are still warm? And when with equal speed and fervor we call the person brandishing arms in their arms a monster?

I have opinions about the death of my species kin Renee Good at the hands of fellow species kin Jonathan Ross. Opinions that stream down my face and make me crumple into Eric’s arms. Opinions I’m keeping away from my daughters for now, but who am I kidding—I know they know. I have no poker face. And my poker body is even worse.

I have my interpretation of this incident, politically speaking. I reassure myself that this judging is only natural. And I refuse to stop there. This is not the right place to stop. Passing judgment is not what we need to remember.

Because humanly (and humanely) speaking, feeling as a conscious mammal with a conscience, what we need to do is stop, side by side, together, to feel with each other and to remember we are bound together. To not forget.

This is why even as my heart breaks for Renee Good, as I feel with all who loved her, as I worry about democracy and humanity’s survival—even with all of this on my mind—I have been turning to wonder about ICE agent Jonathan Ross. Wonder like I learned from Kevin John Fong. Trying to understand. Was Ross feeling scared? Terrified? Did he fear for his life? Was he desperate? Angry? Empty? Emboldened? Meek? Controlled? Or out of control? Both?

How does he feel now?

And I am thinking about his mom. This is a habit I have since becoming a mom. Every time there is a school shooting, my second full thought after registering the horror of the dead children, their poor mothers, the nauseating images dancing like unstoppable skeletons through my brain of dead Clara and dead Nora — even while I’m broken wide open with crippling all-too-real hypotheticals, hypotheticals that are real for some mothers somewhere. Somewheres. Over there. This time not here, thank Goddess. Even with all of that, my second thought is always to wonder about the shooter’s mother. How will she put one foot in front of the other?

Do you think I’m a monster for trying to understand? I guess I can’t really worry about that. Because I believe it’s a mistake to make other humans into monsters – Good or Ross. It is maladaptive and empty to demonize our kin. And we’re all kin.

I think—for us—intraspecies empathy is actually harder than connecting across the animal kingdom. I mean, I guess it’s hard to have interspecies empathy with wasps and mosquitos. But we seem to have no trouble connecting with elephants and dolphins and puppies—easy peezy lemon squeezy as Clara says.

And, still, I know intraspecies empathy is possible among humans. It comes from consciousness, from having a conscience, something we like to claim is uniquely human. Although I reject the claims of our species uniqueness in our capacity to empathize, I do know it’s possible. Just last weekend on the cracked streets of democracy, many fellow humans gathered to pause, to feel—in their bones and hearts and brains—amidst a drought unlike any I—we—have known. Others gather in their homes and neighborhoods. In their writing and speaking. Up. Out. Thirsty and hungry, we are part of a long walk for liberty and justice, a pilgrimage we humans know well, even if it hasn’t been top of mind until recently.

Our lives depend on remembering. On stopping. Honoring. Feeling. Connecting.

And then we must walk on.

After stopping to feel the skull, to know their mortality and feed their spirits, the elephants continued in search of food and water. With nourished souls, they headed for home and hoped for rain.

They say elephants never forget. Perhaps this is because they pause to remember and feel.

In a drought, it seems there are three causes of death: thirst, starvation, and spiritual vacancy.

The rains will eventually come again. Not all of us will make it with our physical form intact.

And, I believe we can save our spirits. This will require some risky stops and choosing over and over and over again to return home. To each other.

❤️,

Becca

PS - The scene I describe above of the elephants really happened and was captured in the breathtaking movie, The Elephant Queen. When I watched this particular set of moments, my heart swelled and ached. I highly recommend it.