Webster’s Tenth: Feral: suggestive of a wild beast: savage; not domesticated or cultivated: wild.
Feral soul goes through life adrift, always feeling hunted; always on the hunt: for food, for shelter from the storm, for a miniscule sense of security. Most of all, feral soul seeks a forever home.
But, all she encounters is “the man” driving a white truck full of cages, who is out to “Rescue” her. She’s rightly fearful of being rescued because she knows what that means. Caged life, surrounded by many other rescued ones following arbitrary rules set by all-powerful keepers. So, feral soul wisely shuns “the man.”
She usually has a job that mostly supports her and her habits. Yet, her habitual meander secures her just enough to squeak by. Living a hair’s breadth beyond an in-her-face sensation of her survival-mode existence, she spends much of her discretionary time and money warding off the ever-impending killer: boredom.
Maybe she regularly fends off utter confusion in a house of worship, eulogizing her idol of choice while ardently following the rote goings on. Her weekly religious obligation satisfied, she’s then free to gad about. Of course, the need to pay the bills severely hampers that supposed freedom.
But, that’s life. As they say, you work your ass off three score and ten and then you die. And in that morass, sh*t happens as the past-present-future parade passes by. Feral soul, incapable of refuting it, obediently joins its ranks. Its files absorb and record her history and occasional histrionics.
She often feels the need to cool her jets, so she heeds the spirit mongers imploring her to live in the present. Problem is, the only present she knows is just a cog in the past-present-future parade. Then, she finally decides to go all in by learning to meditate. Problem is, she watches her breath, or whatever, like a moviegoer seized by the antics played out on life’s screen. She doesn’t “get it.” She sits day-by-day feeling but a modicum of calm because “she” is meditating. NOW sans she eludes her procedural mat visits.
So, on and on it goes, punctuated by an occasional “what’s it all about?” moment or two. Capable only of processing answers couched in her feral milieu, she feigns asking the hard questions. The what’s-it-all-abouts that don’t relate at all to “her.” Her “I-thou” mode of being has her boxed in. Time’s clickety-clack pummels her box-car trains of thought. Her fretting, freighted density keeps her on track for many a cycling swirl in the samsara shuffle.
Little orphan feral soul remains oblivious of the straight knowledge that, even amidst the broad way, she can find a sign crying “Stop the world, I want to get off.” Taking the One step, beyond, feral soul can BE an alien, a mere visitor to planet-trap placements with all their time’s-arrow falderal. She can foreswear feral fumbling by shortening time’s arrow to zero length NOW. She can find herself HOME. She can trade in her feral vehicles for the One I AM hopped up Duesenberg THAT. As a timeless/spaceless flier, she can swiftly zing o’er the long and winding road aloft upon the road of a Loving heart.