So, Odysseus. Specifically the trial in Book 12 most
folks—or many, at least—remember: Skylla or Kharybdis, 6-headed monster or
whirlpool. As captain, and as king, Odysseus commands, hoping to get home
safely to Ithaca.
Fortunately and unfortunately, he has been forewarned of these
threats. The burden of authority is his, to accept the loss of brave and loyal
followers rather than destroy the ship and lose all hands on board.
In the moment of truth, Odysseus, ordering the helmsman
to obey unflinchingly, sets the course closer to the headland where Skylla
awaits. Ignorant of what is ahead, the men bend to the task, rowing with all
their strength.
The whirlpool avoided, but Skylla attacked. The loss, six
of his best. Odysseus must endure the sight of his loyal followers writhing in
the air, screaming out his name in their agony. He hears them being eaten alive.
For him, the worst moment of his command on the sea. But,
he saved the ship.
Why this passage comes to mind now, perhaps is too obvious.
Or too remote. The burden of command….
Political executives, business managers, hospital
administrators, school superintendents, shopkeepers, the young, parents, grandparents,
and, of course, you and me.
What all of us lack is to know the either/ors in full
measure, the probabilities, the outcomes, and yet choices are being made.
Some decisions may be foolhardy, some may be spot-on.
After the facts settle, with so many yapping about how and what and when—well,
some will be correct. How many will go the told-you-so route, I don’t know.
That sentiment guides me now, paradoxically perhaps. I
just don’t know.
To offer up an I-don’t-know card may seem feeble, even
cowardly, but I steer my boat as best I can, in the dark, hoping not too be
fooled by a siren’s song.
Be well.
First, a red-shouldered hawk flew across the lake and
landed in the last of the tall pines near the shore. Just as that bird settled,
I heard crows coming along from the same direction—three, and noisy and then
circling the hawk.
The crows dived and flapped and cawed, the hawk unmoved.
After a minute or maybe less of that harassment, the hawk
flew to the Grandfather tree. Already airborne, the crows swooped and fluttered
in mock attacks on the predator.
Again the hawk settled, again the crows persisted—so loudly
I thought neighbors might come out to see what the riot was about.
This hawk I believe to be the resident female. Earlier in
the week, I watched her fly over my back yard with a mouse in talon and into
the woods below the dam where she nests.
Up she lifted, seemingly unhurried. The crows, frenzied.
Higher she rose, catching updrafts, beginning a slow,
shallow circling. The crows continued their aggravating aerial assault, sometimes so
close the hawk veered a bit from their flightpath.
Still higher, still pursued, the climb now to I would
judge 100 feet. One crow peeled off from the trio. Climbing still, the pair of
crows continued their antics.
A second crow left the fray. The final crow still flashing
at the hawk as she led it higher.
If only that crow might make a mistake on the wind, I
thought, one little puff, a little shift from another angle, an inadvertent
stall—bam! The hawk clutching the crow by the neck, squeezing without mercy,
dropping the miscreant to splash into the lake.
I watched, I wanted to see the tormentor get its just end.
They worked even higher. Any minute it could end. And it did, the final crow
flew off.
Wait, I rooted for the predator to kill in this scenario.
Not for food, but for some satisfaction of a kind I’m not sure I want to mull
over too deeply. What the hell.
What the hell did crows ever do to me?
