Today is the first day this week that I can create in a way that feels normal for me! While I was sitting here reflecting in my Lectio for the Lent season, I realized that I’d been hearing screeching for quite awhile. I think subconsciously I chalked it up to the blue jays that sometimes come through and have such annoying voices...but then I realized that’s not what this sound was—it was one of my squirrels. My experience has been that I will hear this sound and find only one squirrel...and at some point in the next day or so I have found a squirrel on the road behind the house dead from some passing car.
So I went outside. I had vowed not to leave the house and definitely rest and be well by Monday and the weather is getting chilly and yet...I had to check on the squirrel. Saw him on the big branch with his back toward me, facing the road and continuing to cry out that guttural squeak. I quietly called to him and he turned to face me, his tail stuck like a mane up his back, neck and head. He looked at me for a long time and squeaked again a little quieter. I found myself moved by his crying out, his small and fragile appearance, his attentiveness to my quiet voice. This small creature with so much emotion.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t count myself as a “squirrel lover” per se. They can get wild out there—three at a time chasing and playing and hiding and seeking and me trying to focus on my writing; I have at times slapped my hands like a mother pushed to her limit to snap them out of it and send them across the street to play—by way of limbs and branches and the safety of their agility through the air. I also have taken after them when they have had the audacity to come across onto the patio and taste the tender shoots of new plantings or leaves off beloved potted plants. They are annoying rodents to be sure.
But they are just being what they are. And really, they’ve only been annoying because of my way of looking at things. Even the squirrel who found himself in my Mama Ruth’s living room having fallen down through her chimney was only trying to find his way out again, albeit shredding her curtains and sofa and knocking off precious collectibles from their places upon tables and mantel and piano. (Fortunately, Mama Ruth lived at a time and in a place where rooms like that could be closed off from the rest of the house—preceding the “open floor plan” and minimizing the potential damage that little fella could have inflicted.)
I stood outside face to face with the tiny squirrel who was quietly gazing back at me. Seemed the right thing to do—to befriend, stand alongside in comfort, just be there. Clearly I can’t know what he’s feeling or thinking by means of words and clearly he can’t know the meaning of my words. But since he has often seen me before...and since I spoke in quiet tones—not saying much really, just enough to distract his attention...maybe the tone and the presence could mean something to him? Isn’t it appropriate to pray comfort for his loss or grief or whatever seemed to be bothering him?
After all, in the beginning of the beginning, the Story tells us that human beings are responsible for tending to the animals and plants—to the earth. All is in our care. Surely that must be rooted in empathy, or sympathy at least. Saint Francis blessed all the animals. Never mind, I don’t need to hear your answer now. Saint Francis raised up these creatures for God’s blessing and I remember the church celebrates the blessing of beasts to this day. And so I will continue to pray for the little critters in my quiet garden. (And since coming back in the house and writing all of this, I have not heard him again...I hope that is a sign that he has gained some comfort, some succor...an answer to my prayer.)
(I have birds, squirrels, opossums, armadillo, rabbits, butterflies, frogs, crickets, snakes, lizards. And rats. Yes I have had Nozzle Nolan set traps for the rats.)
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