Open up ya eyes and watch the sunrise
One part of me I’ve been made clear
Love that goes spread all the world
My love ya comes out of devotion
To rule ya spread to the world
In strange town I’m on my mission
Where we praise the day straight our way
All the nation
Let me be the love that comes form the sun
Let me be your rainbow rising on
Every single raise out of space
Will Shine on, shine on!
Let me be the love that comes form the sun
I wanna be your love light from above
In the howling winds of a deep, New Hampshire, December. After the four legged children have been fed, watered and put to bed…I glance at my wife, my partner, my…not born yesterday, marriage. Between the kicking, prodding, slurring and whispered, angry requests…I ponder…
Could I live like a Mosuo?
Mosuo are a small, matriarchal sect. An ethnic group from China that defies traditional marriage.
Instead, they have built their love relationships on something called, walking marriage.
Having read this little bit of knowledge. And, currently dealing with a kicking wife who soundly sit’s up out of bed from a dead sleep and screams…
“Are you okay?”
Again I say to self…
Mosuo or not Mosuo?
Normally when she asks if everything is copacetic with my meditation time. I just give into my demons. Forgo the chant. And worry about bills.
However, her question came out in blood curdling bursts from a voice that sits between Pee Wee Herman and Joan Rivers.
Mosuo? Do they really have anything on this so called, Walking Marriage. No wives. No husbands. Children raised by the inner sanctum of family.
After all, at seventeen years in, we write post-it notes to each other…to have sex.
The women of Mosuo? They sing and dance. They probably even remember what they said to each other yesterday. Most likely, the Lady in Charge of Her House, even rubs her perspective night-mate’s feet. These little jabs at foreplay happen during the day…when no one is tired.
Later on that evening, women invite visitors to their rooms and encourage them to leave the next morning!
-This dating game can begin and end…whenever.
Or, as I like to say, ‘if the door hits you on the backside. Don’t bother coming back in.’
-Never any need to inquire on the ‘adult’ stuff. At least for a short period of time. No pillow-talk over are the…kids alright? Have you walked the dogs? Did you get the stool sample from the cat? Like the vet asked!
And, other little assets that come to mind if one decides to participate in a Walking Marriage:
Old people (like myself)can give it a whirl.
There is little domestic violence! For christ’s sake…if two people can’t get along for a few hours. They probably shouldn’t hook up!
War is less likely to happen! With everyone having ‘walked’ the whole village. War would be counter productive.
This Visiting Marriage can have its faults:
-What is love?
And, more importantly,
-What does love have to do with it? (Thank you, Tina Turner)
-If two Visitors happen to have visited the Lady’s abode? What happens if they meet up? Jealousy? Hurt feelings? Who will be the Sugar Momma or Sugar Daddy? It could get ugly.
About now it is 3 in the morning. My wife has now decided to wake up out of my sound sleep and ask…
“Don’t forget you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow!
So, with Mosuo and Megan…on my mind. I think ‘No’ to Mosuo tradition. What if I broke a hip and needed someone to take care of me? Take care of me for 4 to 6 weeks? Who’d be walking through my house then?
Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave
and eats a bread it does not harvest.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking
Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Gibran, the Garden of the Prophet