From Ancient Greek folklore springs the cyclical life span of the phoenix. The fabled bird can take hundreds of years to reach the end of one phase.
A patchwork of fragrant spice is her nest, funeral pyre and kindling, which she sets on fire.
As the myth unfolds, her crimson feathers will burst in flames and then from the ash she will rise — a worm born of her marrow.
This is the site where the cycle of her circuitous ride will begin anew.
There is a gem of a moral to unearth in the tale of this legend. All the while, we are mere mortals, the lion’s share is deep in the heart of the human condition, the last place we’d think to dig.
There are some of us who seem to harbor this penchant for hope that shines with a new year. It’s a time for us to get a do-over, a clean slate, on which we write our resolutions.
Hence, we grab a piece of chalk and march to the drum of a new dawn.
And so it is with the national leaders we elect. We have faith in them to get the job done and not whittle the broken branch of time away in D.C.
Be that as it may, we still hear them play the same clichéd tune at the close of each election. The time has come for them to put the people first and lay down their arms.
It could be a novel concept, that is, if they’d try to take off the armor prior to going out on the stump. It’s too much fun slinging mud out on the trail for them to think of us.
This mindset falls in line with some of the voters who rallied for the leader of their tribe to win. The defeater who tries to beat the defeated with a stick, the one he called an olive branch.
Yet, in this vein, sneak a peek at his contingency plan in case the big prize were to slip through his fingers.
He stowed the can of gasoline and box of matches in his car trunk to burn the olive tree to the ground.
By and large, they want us to buy the peace and unity schtick, which at the end of the day, falls short.
Had he pulled up the rear, his consortium of hot heads would get whiplash from trying to huff and puff to blow the House up.
The truth of the matter is this ilk has a persona in line with the Mad Hatter as a tea party host as well as the Big Bad Wolf with a proclivity to stomp and pout.
There are many, on the left and right, who hop on the hate rail and sow discord at the same rate. With one hand, they grasp for ours to clasp and claim to yearn for unity.
The infidel balls the other in a fist to pump in our face while he and those with an overzealous bent walk side by side to spread seeds of rancor. He and his comrade tend to the garden of wrath.
In my humble opinion, if you want ire to die, don’t shine a light on it or give it fodder to grow.
You may be part of the Twitter pile-on pow wow to pillory the dissenter under the shade of night. But come sunrise, don’t be full of dismay when they deign you the outcast to pounce on.
A friend who’ll chide you for not trying to espouse his view may be a foe in disguise.
A voice leans on us to compel or discourage our choice as we head to the polls. It doesn’t bode us well to give credence to the duplicitous words which led our feet to stand in a field of bull.
The media carved a fast track to the fix. In spite of this, we lag none the wiser on the path worn of omission.
The road to challenge the race is bumpy and brings to bear the weight of anchors and administrators who flip the lever to stomp out free speech.
When the fight is fierce, and defeat is a feat to foil, it can elevate the triumph of victory to euphoric glory.
Though freedom is not free, the battle scars of war are worth the toll to wave the stars and stripes of Old Glory at the helm of her flagship.
It ups the ante when blood spills from the heart of a soldier.
We may be keen to cross swords with the tyrant who might dare pillage the treasure we hold so dear. We’re armed to fend off the fiend in a land far away.
There isn’t dolor when a stranger holds a derringer to your temple, but to parry a pirate on our own shore is the sharp blade of betrayal plunged so deep in the back by a brother that the pain will sting your soul.
So where do we find civility? In an era in which moral turpitude takes a back seat to scandal and reasonableness to breathless outrage, the self is a great place to start.
RAINA FISHER is a child activist, writer and psychologist writing a memoir on parental alienation. She lives on County Home Road near Paris; her email address is email@example.com.