The bones of us, the heart of us
by Kitty Griffin
I’ve just had the delight of returning from nine days in Ireland (Errland, NOT I-err-land). One of the places I went to was Newgrange, an ancient place dating back three thousand years, B.C. Yes, B.C. It’s a place where our ancestors took pause from roaming and stopped. They found a rich valley, a sweet river, and plenty of stones with which to build. And build they did. They created what is regarded as a tomb that dates back before Stonehenge. A rounded building with a domed ceiling over a chamber, with three smaller chambers attached. The top photo shows the swirls found on a number of tablets. The second is a view from just outside the door of the tomb.
From the distance the eye sees only a slightly raised mound. Just a bump on a hill in this beautiful place. Yet what the archeologists found was the bones of us, not just human remains, but something that remains human today. That is the need to communicate. The need to tell others something we know.
For these five thousand years their story stays with us. Sadly, we don’t know what it is they had to say. We can guess our best, but that is what we have. These humans, these astronomers and farmers of so long ago, carved their story into rock, just as today we carve our stories onto our computers.
We still want others to know what it is we have to say.
That is the bones of us.
That is the heart of us.
We are storytellers.
It’s in our genes. It swirls through us, by us, in us, above us, below us.