A fish understands almost nothing about the water it inhabits—every moment of its life happens in, through, and with water. Because its entire reality is water, the fish can’t distinguish its surroundings from its own existence and dreads only one thing: waterlessness, which is death.
By contrast, humans fear that very same element as if it were death incarnate—unless we control it with constant, taken-for-granted boundaries: shorelines, pools, boats, faucets, drinking glasses, hoses, raindrops, bathtubs.
Consider sugar’s journey: safe and undisturbed in its bowl, then scooped by a spoon, hurled through open air, plunged into a cup, and finally dissolved into steaming coffee—an invasive, deathlike union.
(Spoiler alert) In Jack London’s The Call of the Wild, Buck the dog endures one master after another—some kind, some brutal—while a faint, irresistible “call” tugs at his instincts. He cannot name it until an uncanny howl leads him into the forest, where he discovers a wolf pack—his true family and the kingdom (fishbowl?) for which he was born.
As daylight fades or autumn yields to winter, the flowers in my wife’s garden fold into themselves for protection. Only those strong enough to survive this necessary hardship will, when the season turns, bloom again with greater strength and beauty.
At my local dog park I’ve come to know a tribe of women over fifty—widowed, divorced, or tethered to husbands they no longer respect or enjoy. They share an unshakeable belief in their own right(eous)ness, a sense of noble victimhood, and unwavering opinions on politics, religion, and men. Their gatherings seem chiefly designed to affirm their routine grievances. They dote on their dogs as a mother dotes on a son who will never grow up.
Are they like the fish—terrified of everything beyond their aquarium? Like sugar—snug in their familiar bowl? Like Buck—restlessly adapting to worlds that demand they forsake their nature? Or are they, perhaps, flowers that have given up hope of ever blooming again?
