The Native Iowan

Another year crawls to a close. Complete, finished, over and done… January 2024 is a New Year. December 2023 soon to be a memory. Little time left of 2023. Like the cmas ornaments and decorations, ready to pack up, put in a box, tape closed, and put away until “required” next time”.

We always look forward to, hope of a “next time”.

I often ruminate on the base needs of mankind, the need to “manage time”. To control, stall, stay the inevitable. The insidious, creeping-crawling passing of time.

I am convinced it is a genetic “THING”. Something deep and old within ourselves. A whisper of a voice, a murmur of a clock ticking, a rumour of time passing. Our heart beats, counting the measure of life.

The internal clock ticks and measures and pushes and leads. None can withstand the ticking. None living. Only the dead are immune to the 1,2,3 of the heart beating. Counting. Measuring. 

For the male of the species it is a prodding to prove himself, to prove his strength, to prove ability to protect and provide. Social and cultural norms and mores dictate that proof is violence, ability, and trophies.

What is proof? The felling of a wild adversary. The eating of the first-kill, the drying of the pelt, then wearing the head-dress that proclaims the male as a MAN. 

For the female of the species it is a prodding to prove herself, to prove her fertility, to prove her worth. Social and cultural norms and mores dictate that proof is regeneration of the species.

What is proof? The birthing of offspring. The care for and understanding and providing for of the progeny. The rearing of such, teaching, instructing, training. It is the brood at her feet, instructed and reared to maturity that proclaims the female as a Woman.

And as years move, gain momentum, lengthen and wither. As the delicate skin of the maiden becomes the dry wrinkles of the ancient. As the hearty ability, the muscled limbs of the youth becomes the infirmed gait of the aged. 

Once admired, coveted, the smooth skin, the muscled frame, youthful and full of life. Ready to create life, take on life, challenge life. Now dry and slow. Only the babes lay their cheeks to the old withered cheeks’. Only the dutiful and respectful assist the old frail movements. 

Their season has come and gone,. Their time passing swiftly. After years of slow passing, time gains momentum. Instead of counting in years and decades, it is days weeks, even hours and minutes.

Mankind has a tenacious grasp on life. Too, a fear of the end. A fear of the unknown. A fear of “what comes next”.

Those content with life find it easier to pass. Those less selfish with life struggle less to release their grasp. While some, many, struggle and fight to the last possible breath. Hold on even as the spark fades

Which indeed is the norm. To be selfish with life, to struggle against, resist the inevitable. 

It is in our DNA, in our life long lessens, all our learning. We are genetically designed to fight to survive. To serve our species by surviving, procreating, passing on our genetic memories to the next generation. Our replacements. 

Time is short… for 2023…