Sorry all — I posted a poem I wrote when the occasionally unbearable effort of saving one animal at a time when literally millions more are tormented and unable to be saved was getting to me. I am sure it happens to all sanctuary workers at one time or another. I tried to recall the post and was only half successful.
In any case, wouldn’t trade this work for the world; can’t imagine any AR work that isn’t similarly difficult.
But of course it’s critical to remember that whatever we may suffer at any given time is nothing compared with what they suffer; what they experience. We can’t invalidate our pain, for that generally just makes it stronger and come out twisted, but we must keep it in perspective.
Here’s the rest of the poem:
Blunt slowing smoke waiting for minutes to turn hours filled with no bodies no shivering wings no crumpled claws.
The nothing, the nothing. Reach for thirty hopping the insect dance to dark.