Survival Instinct

Should we one day experience a zombie apocalypse, I know in my heart of hearts that I would throw myself in front of a horde if it gave even a fractional chance of escape or survival to my child.

(Raven, why the hell are you wasting energy thinking about this? - Please…hold your questions.)

But I also know that logically, if I'm the last thing between my defenseless offspring and the zombies, that there's almost no chance of his survival. That kid is toast. But I'd do it anyway.

I suppose that's basic instinct for you. The logic-defying drive to protect your line, your species, at all costs. A sort of twisted survival instinct. For whatever reason I look through this lens from time to time at the things I do, just to see how they line up.

My fear of reaching into small dark spaces? Survival instinct.

Buying four bags of pasta instead of the one that we plan to cook this week, despite my partner's very valid and palpable annoyance? Survival instinct.

Gotta have enough food reserves for that zombie apocalypse, you know?

But what about the drive to paint? Or to hand-felt wool, and then sew black and gold threads, and glass beads, and pyrite onto it?

Survival? Well, maybe not in the traditional sense. Creating these little wall tapestries probably won't find me a mate, nevermind that I've already got one so…why should the drive continue if that was its source?

But I know that if you took away all of my tools, all the supplies, and told me that I wasn't allowed to write, or craft, I would go bonkers.

(Please don't get any ideas.)

So, yes, my survival in a way depends on these fairly useless activities. But maybe there's something more to it for those of us that feel a call to alchemize and adorn.

Maybe what we're being driven to is an evolution.