Whatever could have happened, did. That’s what brought us to
this moment. If we could hop into a time machine and go back, redo even one
tiny thing, it would open a tidal wave of change around us here in the present.
Everything would be different. At least that’s what I believe. Whatever will
happen in the future is written in stone. We can’t read it, but it will happen.
So I don’t live with regret. Too many waste their time viewing regret as if it
were a preventable death. That’s toxic.
Hopefully we learn from the things we come to see as mistakes, the dead end, the road we took on a path to trouble. It’s an opportunity for growth. That’s how we evolve as individuals. Our history is like a list of ingredients that make up our current recipe. But yesterday, when I showed a friend a picture of the scorpion I had found on the floor of the shower, he asked: “So did you give it a big 10 ½?” I said “No, I put it out on the lawn.” Looking at me like I was crazy, I added: “I don’t like to kill stuff.”
All afternoon I thought about a time when that wasn’t the case. A time when I was 12 years old, living out my summer vacations running free in my Grandfather’s woods with a .22 rifle attached to my side. I killed way too many small animals and birds for no reason other than because I could. I didn't yet understand that I had a responsibility to them. My friend David was staying with me one summer when we spotted a baby rabbit feeding on new growth at the side of the pond. David was saying that it was just a baby as I raised my rifle and put a bullet through its right eye.
I killed a goose in Mexico when I was 14. It came at me from behind, chasing me in the back fields of the Art Institute in San Miguel where my family spent several summers. The goose surprised me, scared me. Guess that’s just what geese do sometimes. I scooped up a large stick on the run and turned to face the attack, hitting the goose hard on top of its head. With a loud crack, the stick broke in half and the goose fell dead. Unlike that rabbit, I didn’t mean to kill it, but I did. That goose couldn't hurt me, I killed it because I was scared and stupid, and because I could. That's not a justifiable reason.
Two years ago I was standing in the hot summer sun in front of my house speaking with my neighbor about some common flowers between our properties. As we agreed on a plan to cull out the dead plants, a large beetle ran across the hot sidewalk between us, scurrying quickly for the cool of the grass on the other side. Without thinking, my neighbor lifted his foot to smash it into goo. Matching his speed, I said “no!” perhaps a bit too loud as I stepped over the insect to protect it from his shoe. The beetle made it to safety, oblivious to the giants standing above, deciding its fate. As far as my own fate, all I can do is the best I can do, I can let the beetle cross, unmolested, alive. If there is a power over me, hopefully it will return the favor.
Due to my memory of that rabbit I killed 54 years ago, that goose, all the insects I put into a cyanide jar and mounted on tiny pins in colorful balsa cigar boxes that I sat on the top shelf of my closet, I try to see beyond myself. It’s because of those little critters and one big goose that I’ll capture a spider in a glass and release it to the outside, or maybe a scorpion trapped in the shower that has as much right to live another day, perhaps more, than I do myself.
I do that, because the past is a memory, the future a hope. All I have is this moment.
I do that because I can.
Hopefully we learn from the things we come to see as mistakes, the dead end, the road we took on a path to trouble. It’s an opportunity for growth. That’s how we evolve as individuals. Our history is like a list of ingredients that make up our current recipe. But yesterday, when I showed a friend a picture of the scorpion I had found on the floor of the shower, he asked: “So did you give it a big 10 ½?” I said “No, I put it out on the lawn.” Looking at me like I was crazy, I added: “I don’t like to kill stuff.”
All afternoon I thought about a time when that wasn’t the case. A time when I was 12 years old, living out my summer vacations running free in my Grandfather’s woods with a .22 rifle attached to my side. I killed way too many small animals and birds for no reason other than because I could. I didn't yet understand that I had a responsibility to them. My friend David was staying with me one summer when we spotted a baby rabbit feeding on new growth at the side of the pond. David was saying that it was just a baby as I raised my rifle and put a bullet through its right eye.
I killed a goose in Mexico when I was 14. It came at me from behind, chasing me in the back fields of the Art Institute in San Miguel where my family spent several summers. The goose surprised me, scared me. Guess that’s just what geese do sometimes. I scooped up a large stick on the run and turned to face the attack, hitting the goose hard on top of its head. With a loud crack, the stick broke in half and the goose fell dead. Unlike that rabbit, I didn’t mean to kill it, but I did. That goose couldn't hurt me, I killed it because I was scared and stupid, and because I could. That's not a justifiable reason.
Two years ago I was standing in the hot summer sun in front of my house speaking with my neighbor about some common flowers between our properties. As we agreed on a plan to cull out the dead plants, a large beetle ran across the hot sidewalk between us, scurrying quickly for the cool of the grass on the other side. Without thinking, my neighbor lifted his foot to smash it into goo. Matching his speed, I said “no!” perhaps a bit too loud as I stepped over the insect to protect it from his shoe. The beetle made it to safety, oblivious to the giants standing above, deciding its fate. As far as my own fate, all I can do is the best I can do, I can let the beetle cross, unmolested, alive. If there is a power over me, hopefully it will return the favor.
Due to my memory of that rabbit I killed 54 years ago, that goose, all the insects I put into a cyanide jar and mounted on tiny pins in colorful balsa cigar boxes that I sat on the top shelf of my closet, I try to see beyond myself. It’s because of those little critters and one big goose that I’ll capture a spider in a glass and release it to the outside, or maybe a scorpion trapped in the shower that has as much right to live another day, perhaps more, than I do myself.
I do that, because the past is a memory, the future a hope. All I have is this moment.
I do that because I can.
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