When the lions don’t eat you.

I’ve been tweaking things a lot lately. Everything from my laptop settings to my work schedule, to my hobbies and my relationships, has gotten flipped around in the last month or so.

It feels like I’m rearranging symbolic furniture, hoping to find something that feels right(er).  I tend to rearrange actual, literal furniture a lot, too. Metaphorical furniture is at least a lot easier on my joints, which is something I’m learning to appreciate more as I approach 40.

Nothing especially newsworthy to report in my own little world. Well, maybe something. Make of it what you will.

For the last few days, I have been a little overwhelmed with the true hardships and tragic circumstances happening all around me. Some of the situations have involved people I love dearly, some involve people I don’t know especially, and some are people I really don’t know at all, but have a degree or two of separation from.

It’s made my heart hurt, but I suspect my heart was getting stiff and crusty anyway lately, so that’s probably a good thing. It’s probably the same kind of hurt your butt gets when you walk 2.6 miles after sitting on it for most of the summer.

I keep thinking of car accidents on the road, and feeling a bit like a rubbernecking commuter. Or maybe I’m feeling like I did when I rode the “lion bus” at Tama Zoo in Japan.

At Tama Zoo, they hang little bits of raw meat from hooks on a bus, and if you pay a few hundred yen (the equivalent of a couple bucks), you can ride the bus through the lion habitat. The lions hang out mostly on wooden platforms that put them about eye level with the bus riders, so they can stick their massive heads out a bit and eat the meat off the bus. Then they lick the glass.

As you’re sitting there, watching a massive lion with his head five inches of air and a quarter inch of plexiglass away from yours lick meat juice off the window, it occurs to you that if he were really hungry and motivated, he could come right through that window and eat you. 

You hold your breath a little, and your exhalations carry tiny prayers of gratitude that today, the lion isn’t that motivated or hungry.

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