A Badger and a Stone

Animals sense our walking.

I don’t mean merely that they know our presence. I mean
that, in moments, they sense the intentions of our hearts—
whether our hearts are walking forward or backward.

You may wonder at my saying this. There was a time
when I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

But then I met a badger with a stone.

It happened not long after I escaped
the land of winding cliffs.

My moccasins had disintegrated from my feet, and with
them some of my confidence among the hills. Red ants
and stickers bade me turn around at each step. Finally,
I collapsed to rest in the pungent shade of a sagebrush.

After a few minutes, I heard from the other side
of the brush a muffled growl and spitting noise.
I turned my head to look.

Less than five feet away was a freshly dug hole.
From the hole a furry rump emerged—the rump of
a massive badger backing its way up the dirt ramp.
He held loosely in his front claws a fist-sized stone,
dragging and rolling it along up the ramp.

I forgot my troubles as I watched the scene.
As the badger’s body topped the ramp, he pitched
awkwardly down the other side and lost hold of the stone.
He growled and went back after it. Time and time again
he attempted the same, only to lose hold at the top.
When finally he succeeded and was about to go back—
perhaps for another rock or for a rest—he saw me.

In that moment I almost fainted.
For in my interest in the badger’s project,
I had forgotten how ferocious they could be.

He gave me a long look, then a nod,
and slipped smoothly down the ramp into his new den.

Old Badger sensed my heart.

I meant no harm.

In that moment, I resolved to walk peaceably
with animals in my walking.

The Language of Animals

Unfortunately, I have not always so walked.

Very often before that day, and all too often since,
I have failed to care enough about animals to learn
how to converse with them in their own languages.

Yes, you heard right.
Converse with them in their own languages.

All creation speaks and listens.
It is only man that is hard of hearing.

The badger spoke to me that day by the brush,
and many creatures have spoken to me since—
the deer, the snake, the mountain lion . . .

In all that you and I do, we speak to them as well,
for our movements are part of our speaking.

Faces among the Animals

I have learned that my failure to connect with animals
has been a mirror of my failure to connect with people.

The deer I have failed to appreciate,

the snake I provoked to anger,

the mountain lion I made to run in fear . . .

Look hard, my young friend, and you will see as I have—
these animals have faces, and they are faces
of people we have known.

How surprised I was to discover this. For I ran to the
wilderness to be alone. But what I discovered when
I arrived was that I brought my world with me.

It came with me because my world is how I perceive it—
and invite it to be—by my heart.

I entered the wilderness with the same bitter heart
that I carried among my people.

What I discovered—first then, and many times since—
was that everywhere we go, we bring our world with us.

The animals, by their responses to us, give us a chance to see
not just a new wilderness but, in the same act, a new home.

For our malice shows itself through them
and reveals our backward walking.

Each face before me gives me the chance to love all faces.

My young friend, do you understand my speaking?

Learn to live peaceably with the deer, the snake,
and the mountain lion, and you will discover peace
as well toward your people.

Honoring Creation

Early on, I was afraid of the animals.

But that was because I was thinking of myself.

When I learned to think of them, all fear left me.
In its place, I felt wonder and peace.

Here is what I mean by “thinking of the animals”:

When I see a deer, I wonder what her life must be like.

When I encounter a snake, I watch to learn
how he goes about finding his prey.

When I come across a mountain lion,
I observe his elusive nature and how his shyness
keeps him a rare sight among the two-legged beings.

For before I entered the wilderness, if I thought about others,
it was only to find what was wrong in them.

To find in other creatures things that are of interest,
things to appreciate, that was a new experience indeed.

Soon, I found myself longing for the deer, respecting
the vital business of the snake, and learning from the
common sense of the mountain lion.

Quite naturally, simply by taking an interest in them,
I learned their languages—the sounds, actions, and smells
they respond well to, and those that trouble them.

I learned to walk peaceably among them.

Like all creations, the deer, the snake, and the mountain lion
were honored that I would respect their Belonging Place.

They accepted my walking and returned peace.

The Offering of Animals

Perhaps it surprises you to hear the word peace applied
to animals, since so many of them kill to survive.
But observe them and you will understand.
There are two ways to walk, even in hunting.

Let me explain with another legend—a story known
among my people as “The Legend of the Lamb.”

It is said that before the foundation of the earth was laid,
the animals gathered in a grand council
to decide the order of their existence.

How could they survive and multiply? they wondered.
What would be their source of food? Would all eat grass?
Then what would be left to cover the earth in softness?
And who would inhabit the highest climbs and lowest vales?

The debate grew loud and heated.

Amid the clamor, the grand council failed to notice one among
them who had made his way slowly to the fore.

He called to them, “My brothers and sisters of the earth.”

All who were talking fell silent. Before them stood one who ate
grass—a lamb. Not just any lamb, but the greatest of them all.
“My dear friends,” he began. “You are dear to me, as you know.
I have come to know your hearts, each and every one.
They will lead you to multiply and replenish the earth—
from its tips to its depths. For this is the desire that is in you—
the desire to fulfill the measure of your creation.

“But you must be free to do so—the bird must fly,
the lion must roam the land, the fish must explore all the waters.

“You must not be bound to the grass.

“I will provide you the freedom you need
by providing you all with food.”

The grand council looked around in wonder.
“What food?” they asked, almost in unison.

“I will offer myself as your food,” he said.
“My flesh and blood will sustain you wherever you need to go.”

“But how can it?” asked one.

“You will see,” said he.

The grand council fell silent.

The silence continued for hours.
It was not a time for words, only for feelings.
All were pondering the sacrifice of the lamb.

Finally, out of the reverent stillness
a dove took flight and lifted a song on the wind.

“This act must not be forgotten,” it sang.

“This act must be remembered still.

Our lives must join in the offering,

our acts must testify of his.”

The dove lighted on the shoulder of the lamb
while the music grew on the wind.

The grand council joined in one voice and song,
adding their words to the breeze.

“We too must offer as he has done,” they sang.

“We too must give,

for each act of offering

points to the act whereby life was given.”

My young friend,

do you see why I use the word peace to describe animals?

Their deaths are sacred offerings.

They make the same gift to you and to me
as they do to their fellow creatures.

In similitude of the lamb,
they give of themselves that others might live.