deliverance ovenbird “The trouble is that you want to save everyone,” she insisted, as if caring was a disease or a mental health condition I needed to get over. So I met adulthood thinking that there was something wrong with me for not being able to ignore the pain of other living things. Would I be a better adjusted person if I could kill all the spiders that take their chances on the warm dark corners of my ceiling? Would I be deemed sane if I could turn my back on grief and steer the conversation towards safer things like autocracy and the weather? Look, I know I can’t rescue people from holes they don’t want to climb out of, but if they’re screaming for help I’m going to throw them a fucking rope, and tie the end securely around a rock so they have some chance of hauling themselves to the surface. And I’m going to lower down food and water and shout out words of encouragement and tell them how beautiful the snowdrops are up here. I’m going to dangle my legs over the edge and call their name and listen to their stories and sing to pass the time. And in the process of my own living I will gather whatever wild joys spring from the earth, and bring them back to you who weep, and slip on the muddy walls of despair. And you can taste the honey deep in the heart of the purple clover and let it nourish that part of you that will stop at nothing for one more chance to see the eagles hunting by the river while their nestlings cry in the eyrie. 251127 what's it to you? who go blather from