Years ago, living as I then was in Connemara, I moved house. It was all of five or six weeks later that I had reason to open a cupboard in the kitchen. On a shelf of it were some potatoes that the previous occupant had left behind. Drawing only upon their own energies, these tubers had sprouted so naturally and so self-sacrificially as it were that now they were withered and shriveled, and cut off as they were from soil and sun, the sprouts were long and ghostly, almost transparent.
Desperately, they needed inhumation.
Desperately also, does modern humanity need to find ways, ritual ways, of living and expressing its affinity with nature. With Stoics, I believe that there is a sumpatheia ton hollon, a universal sympathy, that runs through all things, that connects all things to all things, and it would I believe be good for all things, including ourselves, if we lived from that sympathy.
In this we might need a little of what Karl Marx was pleased to call the idiocy of rural life.
-John Moriarty, Dreamtime
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