I was wondering about the creatures that occupied this wetland when it was full of water and what they might be doing now that it had dried up. Then I heard what that sounded like thousands of wet tadpoles writhing in the mud, gasping for water. And that's what I found. It was fascinating and heartbreaking to watch them suffering, and I felt an urgent need to do something, to help them. I picked up a handful of those that were still wiggling and rushed them back home to put them in a bucket of water. They furiously swam about and then died because the water was way too cold for them. Does that make me a murderer? Disheartened, I took a break and wondered what to do.
Plan B: I would transport them from the swamp across the road to the swamp down below our house and hope they wouldn't mind a drop in elevation of about 100 feet. I found that some in my earlier bucket of dead tadpoles had miraculously been revived, and I immediately set off into the lower wetland. Before long I was traipsing through a similarly dry swamp, but this time through dense brush, small trees, and any number of stinging, poisonous plants. The tadpoles weren't looking good after being sloshed around for 30 minutes as I sought out a watery shelter for them. I finally found a place, released them, and felt a mix of satisfaction at having done something great and regret that I couldn't have been more gentle. I was plagued by the immensity of the problem as I realized that I would need many buckets and many difficult trips walking through forest and mud to save the remaining tadpoles.
I sat down in the yard behind my parents' house to pick burs out of my clothes and I saw a red-bellied woodpecker sitting inside our fence. When I walked out of the house it was startled and gave a small bark, whereupon I suspected it would fly away. But it didn't. It just sat there, just like an injured bird. Again, I immediately went into savior mode and stepped toward the bird to administer first aid. But then I stopped. I decided to just pick burs and watch the bird. As I picked and watched, it occasionally called out to other red-bellies in the surrounding trees, and they called back. I felt sorry for it.
Then I noticed a small yellow spider crawling on my right hand. I had never seen one that looked quite like it, so I leaned in for a closer look. It had four legs on its left side and only one front leg on the right. How bizarre, I thought. It must have lost the other three in a gruesome battle. Then I aided the little spider in its descent to the grass, took a peak at the bird that hadn't moved, and pulled out a few more burs. The bird suddenly flew up into the air, into the forest, out of the trees, all the way around our house, and then back into the forest. I could hear it celebrating with friends and family.
The spider came back. It was unmistakably the same spider. Four legs on the left and one on the right. It crawled all the way up the chair, up my shirt, and back onto my right hand. OK. What are you trying to tell me? I strongly believe in the Law of Attraction: every moment of every day I will attract into my life the people, creatures, and situations that I need to help me heal, grow, and learn more about Divine truth and love and about myself. And that is what I want more than just about anything. What can I possibly do for these animals? What can I do for a tadpole, a woodpecker or a 5 legged spider? The spider had moved to my left hand, attached a small strand of web to my finger, and began to dangle in the wind. Before I could stop it, the spider released himself and flew away, out into the yard.
I began to cry. The grief was unrelated to the animals. It was about pain that I've been carrying with me since childhood. It was the feeling that there was no trust and no love in my family. Mixed into that pain was the realization that nearly everyone in this world, probably everyone on my street, and in the communities around me, everyone I know is suffering. And what can I do but cry? The sun had found a new, lower position in the afternoon sky when I finally felt that I had let go of some small part of this grief. I felt a new peace with my suffering and with the suffering of the world. It's not my job to save anyone or any creature. I saw that the lives of the animals crossed my path today in order to teach me a couple of lessons. The first was from the suffering tadpoles writhing and gasping in the drying mud: we are the same. You are suffering just like us. Why do you think you can save us? My desire to save is rooted in my discomfort with suffering. I don't want to allow suffering and I have been so arrogant as to believe that I could do something to stop it. The truth is, I believe, that I cannot heal anyone or anything else until I've healed myself.
To believe that I can save someone is to perpetuate the disempowering belief that they need to be saved. To put the bird or the spider in a box would be to limit their opportunities to experience life. Clearly, both were entirely capable of taking care of themselves and of teaching me a valuable lesson. I don't know what will happen to the tadpoles, but I've observed that life has a way of balancing itself out. I pray that I can continue to observe it with enough patience that I might eventually be able to achieve some balance in my own life.
PS: I didn't take the bird photo. I just took it from somebody's website. Thank you somebody.
