What’s happened around the bird feeder in my back yard shows a good example of how some people are not so different from squirrels. But maybe I should only speak for myself.
A couple little fellas were hell-bent on getting to the birdseed. If the squirrels had just waited for the birds to do their thing — they’re kinda messy — the furry guys could have then hopped around and grabbed all they wanted.
Instead, they ripped out the nozzle that rations the seed — the one that also keeps it in the feeder.
Of course, the bandits chose the bottom nozzle. All the seed spilled out onto the ground, leaving themselves and their companions (competitors?) to nudge through the moss and grass, searching for the little bits of life-on-hold that they were so desperate to get their paws on.
It all spilled out, way more than they could eat at once.
Then it rained. The leftover seeds sunk deeper into the moss, further away. They’ll sprout and my landlord will mow before the grass bears more seed.
I wonder if the squirrels will end up with more or less to eat than they might have gotten if they had just let things be.
They remind me of myself. Sometimes I just don’t wanna wait. Sometimes I just don’t think ahead. Whether it’s seven generations or a couple weeks. And here I sit in my later years wondering if I should have — could have — done more to be a responsible, compassionate, fore-sighted human.
It also reminds me of the Pacific Garbage Patch. Millions of us clinging to convenience while the oceans cling to life.
Just imagine what it would be like… No dangling upside down from limbs… no swinging by sharp little toenails to tug at the plastic ring… Just sit tight and wait for the seeds to fall, and you’ll have plenty. And again tomorrow. Just take the moment to choose a slower way to do things — ways that don’t harm others in the long run.
And as we make choice, just imagine… No dangling in suspense wondering what people will think… no clinging to other people’s vision of whom I should be… no regrets twenty, or fifty, years later.
What the squirrels — and I, sometimes — don’t seem to understand is that for my life, I’m in charge of the birdseed bag in the laundry closet, and I’m on a budget.
If they spill it all on day two, they’re seedless until the weekend.
If I do things now that don’t help me in the long run, that don’t sing to my heart, that don’t place me into my personal power command module, who am I cheating? Not the birds.
The squirrels… they got what they asked for, right? Is it any different for you and me?
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