On a hot, humid afternoon, a small dog-like creature nibbles on fruit suspended above a lush fern-covered ground. The thick jungle forest is bursting with sound, as this is a time when mammal life explodes with innovative evolutionary options. Nearby our earliest ancestor (also small) moves past, vying for the same sweet delicacy. For a moment the two lock eyes.
On one such afternoon, Scott and I, the Sayas and caretakers were sitting together on the portal looking out over the horse paddocks, Scott and I nibbling on an offered peach. A younger member of the group was speaking about the #MeToo movement. She was fuming about the various famous men appearing in the headlines for their sexual crimes, and other men she knew who were behaving badly, and proclaimed with much passion and righteous anger, “Yeah, it’s time we really call them out!!” I nodded in resolute solidarity.
Recently a friend asked me how I was doing. “I’m angry,” was my simple reply. At once they rushed in to comfort me with advice on how to deal with my anger as if anger were some kind of a parasite, disease, or unwanted house guest. I stopped them, “No…I’m really grateful for it. Anger is very useful for me.”