The question

(in response to The Oven Bird, a poem by Robert Frost)

The question that we humans must urgently address is how best to manage the world's diminishing resources.

Wildlife is not, like farmed animals, just up for grabs, to be exploited for our personal gratification.

The creatures that have populated and helped to shape our planet, deserve our respect and recognition of the value they add to our lives.

Birds, for instance, should not callously be regarded as ' oven ready.'

Where is the Dodo?

What's happening to African elephants ? Why are their herd sizes diminishing ?

Poets and others with the power to influence public thinking must frame the question of why natural resources are dwindling?

Yes, people are resourceful. As one useful material is used up, another is discovered.

Grafine is the latest that I've heard of. The amount of it is not infinite and neither is the number of the birds and bees!

Can't think of much to say about “the question”, at the moment, but thinking about the poem we have just read, there were lots of questions in my head about it, and then the discussion took place and lots of ideas emerged, and the poem seemed to unfold.

What is the question? I think it is progress if you can ask a question. The other situation is where you don't know enough about something, or haven't understood enough, to even form a question in your head.

A memory comes into my head about a college lecturer who was addressing us student at the beginning of a course. He said “you may be confused now, in a few months time you will still be confused, BUT at a higher level.”

Question. The Question. Capital Q. Round majestic. The quest. The question. Empty, empty, empty. No questions, no answers today. Head space resounding with something I can’t name, can’t grasp hold of or understand. Between the question and the answer, what is there? It‘s not merely limbo, not paddling to stay afloat, though it can feel as if it is. But there is something there. Milk being churned, solids forming. Pond fronds snatching at my feet, trying to tug me this way or that. Confusion. Not knowing. Can there be an answer when the question is unknown? Floundering in answers unmatched, like my sisters 83 odd socks I helped her to put together. Can something of the texture and shape of these present moments, this despondency I feel, allude to the question that is its pairing, its mate?

Am I despondent in response to the changes in my life, personally and socially, politically, this week, or the sharp shunts between humidity and chill, a too sudden lurch from the freedom of the bath-warm air to shivering of an evening in thick jumpers, wrestling with bed clothes that cannot eliminate the draughts along my spine. The spine-chilling events of this past week. The spectre of past atrocities looming darkly, a weighty cloud, a formidable overcoat I can’t find my way out of, buttoned up tight and rough, chaffing and suffocating, quashing all freedoms. Where is the joy? Where is my home? Clearer questions now. Questions I fear the answers to. Fear the knowledge that might beg action, more change. Change unloosed, change faster than I can keep up with. Yet what’s the alternative, change that goes ahead without me. And I left on the dusty highway watching them/it move on, puffing the dirt into drift in their wake. Momentary relief, of the pause and respite, cedes to uncertainty. What next? Where do I go from here? Is there any catching up? Will there ever be another vehicle that passes my way again? Or is this it, alone on the parched earth, stranded. A solitary bloom on dry mountain? Or on volcanic earth?

What's the point? Why are we here? Am I leaving a mark? Should I be leaving a mark? The mark I live on my children, is it the right mark? If I teach them what I believe are good principles, will they be able to leave a more obvious mark?

Questions, questions... Unanswered questions...

Did you love me? Did you love me enough? Was is my fault? Was it our fault? Have I done enough? Will it ever stop hurting?

Down the wrong road. It's supposed to be THE QUESTION, not ENDLESS QUESTIONS.

Back to the beginning.

What's the point?

I avoid the question because it's the scariest of all.

What's the point of working, of loving, of living, of surviving, of hating, of believing, of rushing around like headless chickens, of spending our lives killing ourselves to accumulate? What is the point? We all end the same way, some sooner than others, but we all do. What if there was absolutely no point? What if everything we witness, every single detail that makes up this world of ours is just an accident, not an ingredient?

What to do with a diminished thing? Seems ignoring the questions it brings would be a good idea!

Does life diminish? I am not sure. Health might, but the perception we have of ourselves certainly plays a huge part in it. We are taught and constantly reminded that we should not do certain things as we grow older, that it's not appropriate anymore. But who's written this rule book and why should it apply to everyone?

More questions...

This is unbearable. I can't stop thinking with question marks!

The first thing that comes to mind is the Buddist koan "Who am I?" Who am I really, underneath all the conditioning that started the day I was born, and possibly before...what is an identity? My mother's idea of a perfect little daughter was one who wore pretty smocked dresses and played with her dolls' house. This struck me as a deadly tedious way to spend my time. I preferred climbing trees and running around barefoot enacting adventures with my best friend Sandra. It seems to me that everyone is a unique and unrepeatable expression of humanity, and each is gifted in unique ways. The great mythologist Joseph Campbell wrote in his classic book, The Hero's Journey, that in order to evolve psychological and spirituallly we must each "enter the forest where path is darkest".