Warm, late-winter Sun casts Snow in yellow-gold. But the shadows ache, blue and cold. Old man Winter has arrived, finally, just as Sap was beginning to flow upward in the veins, Ground wet underfoot. Chickadees were singing their courtship song—"Phoebe, Phoebe.” Blue and gold will mingle to make green here before long. If we’re lucky, that is. But for now they lay separately, as Winter light and shadow.
A complicated problem, and an inadequate dangerous distinction. “Killing is not violence” quickly becomes “my killing is not violent” and then all power and its use to any extreme can be justified against anyone and anything. Sacralizing selected violence makes religion to justify it. Why not simply refuse to justify it and embrace one’s own claim of necessary violence in front of witnesses? In complicity we honor the creatures we must kill to live.
Thank you!
A complicated problem, and an inadequate dangerous distinction. “Killing is not violence” quickly becomes “my killing is not violent” and then all power and its use to any extreme can be justified against anyone and anything. Sacralizing selected violence makes religion to justify it. Why not simply refuse to justify it and embrace one’s own claim of necessary violence in front of witnesses? In complicity we honor the creatures we must kill to live.