I collected a handful of acorns, fallen from a large oak tree. I went to get a basket to collect more, but as I turned back to get my treasures, a little boy had come to my spot and was picking up all of MY acorns. He was laughing and jumping from acorn to acorn. As he stuffed them in his pockets his mother yelled ineffectively, “Now that is enough!”
“Yeah,” I thought, “stop taking MY acorns.”
He continued to run and grab acorns, ‘til they fell out of his pockets and he had no more room to store them.
I laughed because he was totally not embarrassed by his undeniable enthusiasm. And I laughed I looked just like him as I fervently collected the acorns. And then I thought I should be embarrassed by my possessiveness, as if they could really be MY acorns. I laughed again and apologized to the tree for any disrespect I may have shown. We laughed together.
The tree and her acorns stayed with me. I wanted more acorns. I still want more acorns. The...
The squirrel shared a message this morning and asked me to pass it onto you.
Early morning, I’m sitting with a cup of coffee my dad made for me. I don't drink coffee, but I LOVE to drink coffee with my dad. As we are thoroughly discussing our monthly chats on the meaning of life, I see George, the squirrel, prancing along the patio fence. I break into a huge grin honored that I get to witness his morning ritual as his shiny grey coat glistens in the first rays of the sun, the trees offering their aromatic fragrance and bright green, glossy backdrop. His bushy tail has been handsomely groomed. He holds it high, delightfully showing off his prowess as he purposefully strolls down the rail, occasionally glancing at me to make sure I am indeed noticing him.
I giggle to myself, quite amused and return to my coffee as I listen to my father’s wise voice. A voice ancient and familiar, grounding me wherever I am in silence. As his words trickle in, I’m suddenly distracted...
Do you know what I hate? I hate my identity being tied to ‘what I do for a living.’ A feeling of utter indignation washes through my veins followed by a grinding sense of resistance when someone asks me, “What do you do for a living?” I’ve always felt that way. In fact it used to make me really angry when I would be at a social gathering with my son on my hip, and my two daughters clinging to my skirt and pretty much everyone I met asked me what I did for a living. Looking at each of my children and then looking back at them I wanted to say, “What the F… does it look like I do?” Isn’t it enough to be a mother or a wife? Isn't it enough to be a gardener or an animal lover. Isn’t it enough to be a forest bather or a shell collector? Instead I would offer up any number of fairly acceptable answers like, I’m an artist. Or I’m a zoologist, or a horse trainer, or small business owner.
I think humans have it all...