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About four inches in length and still glistening from his trek through the moist morning leaves scuttled this feisty crawdad during a misty morning in the last quarter of autumn. He stood en guard and able to lunge and pivot in the detection of heaving Labrador breaths and a frenzied wagging tail. Left to Kola's devices this crawdad would have heartily fastened himself to the flesh of a canine nostril with a similarly fervent, yet less odorific version, as that of a frontal blast from a skunk. The one clear distinction being that the skunk, in making a lumbering, gassy retreat is not facing his opponent head on. He lacks the speed required to outmaneuver anything faster than a snail.
The crawdad, however, stands his ground. He takes his threat head on with claws gaping. The armour of this capable warrior makes him one of the oldest species of creatures that exist today nestling in somewhere between the cockroach and the Komodo Dragon.
Yet on this morning in mid-October this little guy was the last thing I expected to see on my daily walk down Andersen Road. My level of surprise superseded a reaction had I come face to face with a:
Bear - (practiced response) Don't play dead.
Deer - (practiced response after a wardrobe change into my brunette wig and Snow White gown) [Hushed tone]..."Oh sweet deer, I won't hurt you. What forest message do you have to deliver to me today?"
Mountain Lion - (practiced response) Currently accepting suggestions.
This crawdad brought me to a state of silence and awe as if the dream I had last night of a moose smoking a cigar was true. Most likely due to any former experience with crustacean is tidily summed up in Downeast coordinates accompanied by an opaque, one ounce container of clarified butter aside a steaming ear of corn.
Cinching up on Kola's leash and holding him at arms length, with the curiosity of Alice in Wonderland, I made dexterous contact with his cephalothorax to relocate him two feet over, fingers crossed, where he wanted to go. Nestled into the leaves, out of harms reach, Kola and I continued on our series of right hand turns that create the loop to which our passing, resident onlookers can set their watch. As I perform a visual scan of the surrounds, Kola uploads a dog narrative through his profuse compilation of olfactory data. I compile evidence of new branches down on the trail, out of state plates visiting town, the number of New York drivers who are reluctant to drive beyond their side of the double yellow lines...all downloaded. Life continues on, per normal.
At the exact moment when the gyro of rights looses its gravitational pull is precisely when we make a left just beyond the corner where the ancient willow tree keeled over during Hurricane Irene. A mere twenty paces beyond lay an asphalt anomaly. Five paces closer and I squint to discern the origin. The pavement is darker than what the mist could have deposited. The outline is strangely familiar. Ten steps further and horror registers as a swift gasp enters the lungs before I cover my lips with dismay. The glossy shell is broken to smithereens. Fearsome Crawdad has morphed into Flat Stanley.
"Aww, crap.", I uttered to Kola. He gazes up briefly before proceeding to sniff the remnants.
Turns out, because I don't speak crawdad-clickity-clack-Morse-code I boarded the critter on the express line to doom. Perhaps, had I been a better crawdad tracker I would have known that he was heading in a Northerly direction and hence, should have transported him to the opposite side of the street. As Master of the Universe and having rolled the magic number, 'duh', I put him right back at his starting square. Sometimes that is what we nurturing types do. We project.
In attempts to transport the crawdad to safety was not a huge departure from my ongoing challenge to keep my firecracker Tatum (my 10 year old daughter) from getting run over in any parking lot. In addition, what I failed to acknowledge were three distinct markers.
1. Crawdads don't resemble a worm - or a woolly bear caterpillar and, thus, require no aide.
2. As stated in the Rules of Navigation, vessels with impared mobility have the right of way and thus, acknowledging crawdad's above average maneuverability and speed, do not qualify for neon flashers that scream "May Day...May Day...May Day" (otherwise translated from French M'aidez meaning :"How did I get myself into this mess?").
3. The story of an encounter with old man turtle the size of a half domed basketball. Seeing that this event transpired an estimated 8 years ago in the brittle blur of child rearing, it took until now to move beyond my post traumatic stress and connect the two experiences. Yet, one fateful day with 45 minutes of discretionary time I, super hero, altered the route of my run and put my optimum heart rate aside to come to the turtles aid. The nudge of my shoe set him ablaze with a fearsome snap as he attempted my swift ankle amputation. I got the message "I didn't get this big with help from the likes of you.", he said. And somewhere along the line forgot it. Until now.
In attempts to transport the crawdad to safety was not a huge departure from my ongoing challenge to keep my firecracker Tatum (my 10 year old daughter) from getting run over in any parking lot. In addition, what I failed to acknowledge were three distinct markers.
1. Crawdads don't resemble a worm - or a woolly bear caterpillar and, thus, require no aide.
2. As stated in the Rules of Navigation, vessels with impared mobility have the right of way and thus, acknowledging crawdad's above average maneuverability and speed, do not qualify for neon flashers that scream "May Day...May Day...May Day" (otherwise translated from French M'aidez meaning :"How did I get myself into this mess?").
3. The story of an encounter with old man turtle the size of a half domed basketball. Seeing that this event transpired an estimated 8 years ago in the brittle blur of child rearing, it took until now to move beyond my post traumatic stress and connect the two experiences. Yet, one fateful day with 45 minutes of discretionary time I, super hero, altered the route of my run and put my optimum heart rate aside to come to the turtles aid. The nudge of my shoe set him ablaze with a fearsome snap as he attempted my swift ankle amputation. I got the message "I didn't get this big with help from the likes of you.", he said. And somewhere along the line forgot it. Until now.
Had I respected his path and allowed him his own passage as the turtle tried to teach me years ago, crawdad would have had ample time to cross the road and avert one - well maybe two - of four tires. Mais non. Forgotten lessons and good intentions gone bad. And in this putrid realization I humbly profess my stupidity that, in actuality, has been happening for quite some time. I have been doing this with my children for so long their self-empowerment lays fallow.
Through a series of guided and gentle upgrades I am relinquishing the need to control the outcome and allow my children the benefit of crossing their own "street". This path is littered with dirty dishes, laundry and buckles of ski boots accompanied by frustration of plethoric associated gear. It is also tainted with the invisible gravity anchors of unspoken truth and uncomfortable communication that undoubtedly arise along the way. I believe my motivation, under the guise of "nurturing", is really just a cop out. I now understand clearly, that my projecting this fear onto the animal kingdom serves the same amount of purpose as trying to teach the critters how to direct traffic in Times Square. Nurturing insists a deeper understanding and "leaning into" of universal orchestration and faith; Faith that each individual is on their unique path and letting them learn the lessons that intrinsically provide the most meaningfully assimilated experiences. The conditions that one being has drawn to him/herself is intended specifically for them and them alone. Just because it made me uncomfortable to see this crawdad lined up with the gully rut of right tires should have not factored into my action. I feel similar discomfort in listening to Tatum struggle to fasten her ski boots after the attempt to make it to the lodge holding a caddywhompus collection of pickup sticks. I'd just as soon stick a ski pole in my eye. It's a great opportunity to practice the art of non-attachment and let her work it out.
I had no place in moving this creature. It should have been my sole duty to observe and allow. Great Spirit of Crawdad - give me strength to cross my own street and honor the path of others do the same!
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Julie Bowes - Certified Life Coach
JewelTree, LLC
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
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