I look out the kitchen window. Mr. Cooper Hawk has landed on the railing of my deck. He stomps impatiently about, futilely scanning for the birds that were there only a fraction of a second before. “Stupid birds”. “Look at all their stupid seeds”. “I hate seeds”. “I love birds”. ”They’re delicious”. “How did these stupid birds get away from me so fast”? “How can they eat these stupid seeds”? “Stupid birds”. After fuming a while longer, He flies away.
After a prudent wait (about an hour), the little birds return to their seeds.
So, it goes in this world - so far removed from Eden.
Big fish eat the little fish. The savage prey on the weak and gentle. The wolf does not lie down with the lamb. The wolf eats the lamb. Amazingly, all this carnage is considered normal. Elaborate theories are compounded about the “balance of nature”, “the circle of life”, and other such twaddle. How true, how profound these theories seem – until you’re the one being eaten. Do you exalt in the glory of nature as your life-blood drains from your body?
The predators don’t fare much better. Mr. Cooper Hawk will fail more often than he succeeds. Moreover, one day he will die as tragically as those he has eaten. This may be typical; it’s certainly not good. Typical describes a state of being that is consistent with all that has gone before. It does not describe what should be.
Animals are too busy staying alive to worry about what should be - only humans worry about that. Humans control their world to such an extent that they have the luxury of philosophical rumination. But, there’s more to it than that.
Humans understand, somehow, that there is something very wrong with this world. Even those ignorant of the story of Eden sense the wrongness.
The birdies don’t care. There are seeds to eat and the hawk is gone. They remind me of mall shoppers after a terror bombing. Shock, horror, feather-ruffling scary stuff. Then… memory fades, often in only a few days. The shoppers return to the consuming business of consuming. Some few may reflect that someone should put a stop to this sort of insane violence… But… “Hey, look, there’s a sale on the faux Gucci handbags”.
Distraction may be a blessing. How could any animal or human cope with reality so unrelenting - every day - all the time - without some distraction? Fortunately, most of God’s creatures are pretty good at being distracted. I certainly am. In fact, I do it knowingly. I spend several hours each day glancing out my kitchen window at the pageant unfolding outside. Squirrels, birds, chipmunks, racoons; all of them elbowing for position, seeking truce agreements with those who will not be pushed aside, courting the ladies, and boasting of their prowess. In all, a sort of furry, feathered counterpoint to the human action at any saloon.
Nearly all of them are full time residents of the yard. They think of it as their yard. They may have a point. Many of them will probably be here long after I’m gone. I put out about 50 lbs. of birdseed each month. “just right”, they chirp and squeak; only our due. Then, “more please”. I often give in and bring them more. I know I’m only buying their friendship. I don’t care. They reward me with their antics. Sorrow seems further away when I watch their passionate engagement with the moment.
I’ve lived here for nearly 40 years. I’ve watched several generations come and go. The lifespan of most of them is much shorter than it is for people. That’s sad, but it has given me opportunity to see how certain traits of personality have passed from one generation to the next. This is particularly true of the racoons in the yard. Four generations of them have retained the charm of their mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great, great grandmother – Miss Raisin.
Many years ago, my gentle wife, Joyce, was watering bushes in the front yard When, all of a sudden, two furballs came scurrying out - wildly shaking off the water. They looked lost and confused. Joyce was horrified. What had she done? She called to me and I came down the front steps to help. We each picked up one of the soggy little guys. They offered no resistance. They seemed very young, perhaps only a week or so old. They were baby racoons. Mom was not around. Would she return, or was that no longer possible? We brought down bowls of water and milk. They lapped it up. Toward evening, we brought more milk and water. The little racoons came out from the bush without reservation. This went on for the rest of the summer. As they grew older, we added seeds and table scrapes to their meals. Mama racoon never came back.
Joyce named the girl, Raisin, and the boy, Bandito. They stayed with us for the rest of their lives. They remained, all those years, as sweet as they were as children. They never quite learned to be racoons. Maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. We can’t return to Eden, but we might be able to move nearer to something like Eden. Almost every one of God’s creatures responds to attention and kindness – even humans.
My friends, Eddy and Terry, have a backyard full of beings as cheerful as my own; for the very same reason – they welcome them. Terry has a special cardinal friend that waits for her on a branch just outside the backdoor. Eddy has a gray squirrel that walks up to his feet, then sits down and waits. Eddy reaches into his pocket for the peanuts they both recognize as a contractual part of the ritual.
Many people, around the world, and throughout time, have shared their lives with the animals and birds. Nearly all of these people are also kind and thoughtful to their human friends. Some part of the peaceful kingdom survives.
Eden is past, but not forgotten.
But what of hawk? Have I maligned the predators? They live by murder. I know it’s not their fault. They were made for the world that followed Eden. Their bodies cannot be maintained without meals of flesh. They too are victims of a world full of cruelty; a world in which peace is an aberration, and conflict the norm.
There are a few exceptions. Some animals live, not by killing, but by symbiotic agreement. Bees collect pollen from flowers to make honey. This spreads the seeds of the flowers. The bees use the honey to feed the little bees. People and bears steal some of the honey to feed themselves. No harm is done. All parties benefit. There are many such agreements in nature, but not enough to change the rule. Too bad.
Hawk returns in a lighting swift dissent to the yard beyond the deck. With a few strokes of his massive wings he quickly rises - with a small creature clutched in his talons.
Hawk is happy… for now.
Miss Raisin