BY RAYELLEN KISHBACH
Today I pretend that I am a bush woman, collecting firewood for my fire, my knife sharpened to carve goddess figurines when the chores are done.
But I know this is a choice.
It is just as likely today that I might click the up button on the thermostat, and those “chores” involve little more than merely feeding our excess into machines that do the work for me.
This is the blessing of living in the first world; this daily choosing to consume or not, to participate or not, to harm a little less today, handed to me well before the age of deserving, dubbing me winner of some cosmic lottery I never even bought a ticket for.
As if the real Goddess half way across the world has had anything to do with deserving her lack of choices.
No, there is no reason in how we’ve been assigned these very different human experiences. Her yearning for opportunity and justice, the intelligence and strength it takes to care for her babies is something I can’t even imagine, never mind compare mine to.
Today, as I feast with blessed friends, I pretend that I’ve done my part, but know deep in my bones that being kind to the other elites and hiding my privilege under gratitude does nothing for the other 7 billion today and their countless ancestors, upon whose suffering my pleasure is precariously perched.
Yes, I feel thankful. And know that simply isn’t the point.