The intertidal zone

And then this morning I read that military spending worldwide has increased 45% in the last decade. A tidy sum at 1,226 billion dollars. (Curiously enough, now I look for the BBC page, it’s been removed from the headlines, as if it’s just too embarrassing to leave lying about.) What kind of malevolent energy does that represent, and whose? Theirs? Ours?

Is there enough benevolence, enough light, enough dancing in the snow, enough sweetness in the earth and stars, enough compassionate wisdom and will to live (and let live) to make this sum and what it has paid for look like the pile of wet ashes it will one day be?

Spending on arms has diminished since the recession began. We can hope that the pinch makes room for new ways of seeing, and of being.

This is Polly, got up in the top half of my gi. I wrote something for the recent pecha kucha evening (12 speakers, each with 2o images addressed for 20 seconds each) about the interface of writing and karate. I said that each might be seen as a way of containing and giving shape to the energy of Mars, in which we all partake, although its expression in each is unique.

It is the need to act on the world, to validate and make manifest who we are. Thwarted, this urge will find its release by fearful, angry, or devious means, sometimes in outright aggression. One of life’s tasks is to become skilful in the expression of our own Martian (or masculine) energy. Until then, we are likely to blame others for our own unwieldy impulses, to practise passive aggression, to be haphazard in our efforts, and fall short of our own hopes.

Gosh, is this turning into a sermon, or what? Almost done. I find karate a good way to observe, contain, generate and give shape – physically and mentally – to the Mars energy. Writing does much the same but on subtler levels. Both are means of acting with increasing accuracy, first on oneself, then upon the world.

Polly hasn’t got a clue what I’m talking about. Good dog.

I know I’ve used this image already but there’s more to be said about the feet, of which two are engaged to be married, two are homeless overseas, and two belong to the parents of the other four. One of the parents was discussing with another parent recently the states of daughterhood and motherhood — what a tricky little dance they represent at times as we try to gauge how much of our lives we owe yet to our offspring, how much to our parents, and what to ourselves as we follow our own stars. Never mind what we feel apart from the debts and oughts. Some people don’t actually like the people they’re related to (I’m lucky enough to know I’d probably choose mine all over again, she hastened to add), and some are pathologically attached. But we’re all tempted at times to rush in where patient stand-offishness would serve the situation better; or to put our heads in the sand when compassionate intervention is called for.

Anyway, the homeless one revealed her status on Facebook (in which place parents cut another delicate caper), ‘But, Mum, I’ve got a safe place to sleep,’ she wrote. ‘What, chained to a park bench?’ I jotted back.

But no, she’s safely, illegally, ensconced in the attic over a fudge kitchen. Just for a few days.

Sweet as.