Took the child unit to school this morning – scolded the dog for barking at the trash truck as we were leaving and again when I returned home, as it was just rounding out the block and was hasted along in leaving our neighborhood by loud, indignant barking.
“Hush – Hush!, I say. That trash truck will be coming every week ’til hell freezes over – you’re just wasting your time barking at it. You barking does about as much good as me howling at the moon. Stop it,” I say.
I pause, stunned by a realization – I do howl at the moon and sometimes it does make a difference – not to the moon or sky – but to me. (and possibly my neighbors, but not in a good way.)
I howl at the moon in desperation and grief. I howl at the moon because I feel safe in my outrage, certain no terrible consequences will come from slinging a bit of inside angst out towards it’s radiance – surely, the punch has lost it’s kick by the time it travels 238,857 miles?
I’ve sat quietly pondering the Universe, stars and moon and when the thoughts of my life’s travails have whipped me into a frenzy, I howl at the moon my heartbreak.
Maybe my dog does need to bark. Maybe it’s not just her protective streak, rather she barks at the garbage man instead of ripping my throat out because I again chose to work through lunch instead of taking her for a walk – –
In that case, bark all you want.