Bison: (n) a humpbacked shaggy-haired wild ox
It was such a strange sensation.
I had seen many pictures of the bison, but to suddenly be in such close proximity with its three-dimensional form translated me back to a time when America was young, settlers were traveling across the prairie in Conestoga wagons, and the Native Americans were struggling to maintain their integrity without becoming belligerent.
These bisons were everywhere. They were sustenance.
I had a sweeping awareness that came over my soul, realizing how hard it was to live when the bison roamed the Earth at will.
Nowadays, we have an interesting dilemma in America: we want to feed the horse, but no one wants to shovel the shit.
Matter of fact, sometimes we try to stop feeding the horse so there’s not as much shit. Or we let the shit fall where it may, insisting it’s just reality.
But on this Memorial Day, what really impresses me about those who have gone before us and have given their lives to a cause is that they completely comprehended that feeding the horse does produce shit that needs to be shoveled.
In other words, for every bison you kill, there’s one less bison.
And for every human being you hurt, there’s one new enemy.
Likewise, for every war you start, there’s a few less sons and daughters who will grow up and live full lives.
And finally, for every prejudice you express, there’s an anger that will come back your way from those who have been oppressed.
Sometimes it’s just good to drive along the freeway, see a bison and appreciate the beauty of life–because the truth of the matter is, all matter demands truth.
And truth comes with a balance of feeding the horse and shoveling the shit