World Donkey Day

 

World Donkey Day

Jenny and donkey foal

I was pleased to see this picture on my screen this morning, and to discover that today is World Donkey Day. In common with many people, I suspect, donkeys have a special place in my heart. I have never known a donkey, or even been near one since my childhood, but somehow these friendly-looking quadrupeds have found their way into my consciousness, probably through children’s stories and poems.

Christopher Robin’s Eeyore, in Winnie-the-Pooh, the lugubrious, permanently pessimistic animal with the detachable tail, is both sad and endearing. One always hopes for a better outcome for him.

In ‘Don Quixote,’ Sancho Panza, Quixote’s faithful servant, rides his cherished donkey as he accompanies his master on his fanciful journey. Sancho loves his donkey almost more than life itself.

G.K. Chesterton’s poem, ‘The Donkey’ portrays the donkey as a simple, unprepossessing animal with a noble duty.

Mary Oliver in her poem, ‘The Poet Thinks about the Donkey,’ shows him as a patient, unassuming beast who will share in greatness.

Legend has it that the donkey bears a cross on his back for his part in the Nativity, carrying Mary to Bethlehem, then carrying Jesus into Jerusalem. It is also said that the donkey stood by at the crucifixion, and the shadow of the cross remained on his back after the sun rose.

The donkey in ‘Shrek’ is reliable, but extremely loud, and funny.

Before the late eighteenth century, around 1784 or 1785, donkeys were known as asses. It’s not clear why the term donkey came into being. Possibly it referred to the animal’s dun colour. It is preferable to ass, which can be a pejorative term, as in, ‘You silly ass,’ often with ass being pronounced as ‘arse.’

Donkeys have been used as beasts of burden for at least five thousand years. The majority of them work in underdeveloped countries, where their life expectancy will not usually exceed fifteen years. In more advantageous circumstances, a donkey can live up to fifty years.

There are about 185 breeds of donkey, varying from 90 cm (35”) to 150 cm (59”) in height at the withers.

A male donkey is called a Jack, or jackass, and a female is a Jenny. Jackasses are often cross-bred with female horses, to produce mules, which are stronger and more resilient than donkeys. They are valued as efficient pack animals, sure-footed, and capable of carrying heavy loads.

Donkeys have a reputation for being stubborn and awkward, mules less so. Their supporters claim that donkeys are not obstinate, but thoughtful, animals, assessing potential risks before proceeding. I think I’d be pretty careful on a narrow mountain track, too.

Worrying

 

Worrying

 This morning I read Jenny’s post at ‘Procrastinating Donkey’ and it struck a chord with me. She is a worrier. So am I. Are you?

Is there an inherited tendency to worry, an anxiety gene? Maybe we all spend much time worrying unnecessarily, but do not give voice to it.

Michel de Montaigne (1533 – 1592) said, ‘There were many terrible things in my life and most of them never happened,’ and Winston Churchill (1874 – 1965) advised, ‘Let our advance worrying become advance thinking and planning.’

My adult children and grandchildren have anxieties to contend with and they are a natural and usually transient part of life. ‘Will the car pass its MOT?’ ‘Will this cake, curry, roast be edible?’ ‘Will I be able to complete the marathon/cycle race/10-mile bash, 5K run?’ A little anxiety is important because it releases adrenalin, though I’m not sure how much adrenalin is required for cooking. It might more appropriately be needed for those destined/doomed to eat my cooking.

 I suppose all children worry, some more than others. Sometimes the expressed worry is covering a deeper concern that the child is unable or unwilling to express. Some of my younger grand and great-grandchildren worry, (the ones between 7 and 10) sometimes with good cause.

Bullying is a great source of anxiety for children and notoriously difficult to deal with. Too often in the past the victim has been isolated from the bullies ‘for his/her own good’ but that teaches the bully nothing and doesn’t help the sufferer.  Even if the bully is contained and monitored, from which, again, the bully learns little,   there are times when oversight is not possible. Washing hands, lining up for assembly, changing for games, all provide opportunities for covert victimisation.

The proverb, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’ is so patently untrue as to be laughable. It does not refer to grievous bodily harm, which one obviously would remember, but more to sly pinches, punches and hair-pulling. Spiteful words remain long in the memory and, oft-repeated, can do immeasurable harm.

Sometimes a child’s worries cause mirth, hopefully unseen by the child. ‘I’m worried my second teeth haven’t come in’ sounds funny, but to the child it’s a real concern that only a visit to the dentist will allay. ‘I’m worried I’ll get into trouble because I’ve forgotten my reading record/water bottle/school jumper’ doesn’t seem like a punishable offence, but for the child whose teacher impressed on the class that such items must be brought into school, the omission can cause floods of tears and panic.

 All too often, nothing ‘bad’ happens, but for the child, the stomach-churning anxiety that something dreadful will occur is physically painful. Having been repeatedly reassured by a parent that ‘it’s not the end of the world’ the child goes unhappily to school and discovers that the parent was right after all. These non-events (to an adult) are some of life’s little lessons and form part of a child’s journey towards adulthood, learning self-determination, organisation and confidence along the way.

The following poem by Mary Oliver (1935 – 2019) expresses the futility of worrying.

 

I worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right directions, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shall

I correct it?

 

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

 

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

 

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

 

Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And I gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.