Monkey Hunters (an old poem. Just saying)
Tomorrow is my birthday. Another year older but none the wiser, I am saddled with too many memories, too much living in the past to appreciate the present. I am cracked and chipped. A china plate my aunt Leora would throw away.
I find this damaged goods mentality annoying ~ this wallowing immersion in my “lower self.” What is healing? Shouldn’t there be a scab by now, instead of all this festering? I am angry still. Defended and defensive. What has healed? My pain? My anger? My impatience? What has been removed? My envy? My resentment? My intolerance of injustice? Year after year, I carry it all with me. Like a donkey, I’ve learned to accommodate the weight of it and I am worried I won’t ever put it down.
There’s a story about catching monkeys in India, how hunters hollow out
a hole in a coconut shell, leaving a treat and just enough room for a hand
to pass through. The monkey just needs to let go to be free, but it clutches the sweet and when the hunters come it doesn’t run away because it won’t give up the thought of pleasure.
It’s not about intelligence. I *want* to be free but I won’t open up my hand. When the hunters come, I’ll be chattering away ~~~fist closed tightly
around what I will not let go of . . .