Tuesday, October 23, 2007 at 12:12am
Wisdom that arrives on wings and paws
Column: Life at First Sight
They've done it again, those animals, gone and left their tracks all over my heart. I must have broadcast the message that my heart was in need of a bit of softening, even humility, and in rushed a flock of wings and flurry of hooves in response.
It all started when I spent a few days at a friend's farm, hoping to advance a writing project with a deadline looming closer than Christmas at Thanksgiving. While humans and civilization were somewhat scarce, animal life, and its gifts and lessons, seemed to be everywhere.
Two doe-eyed cows supplied the cream for my coffee while a pair of errant, curious chickens obligingly left my morning's eggs in some nearby hay. On my way back from the barn, I noticed that the turkeys had cleverly availed themselves of the convenient perch afforded by my nearby car while the guinea fowl scampered around it in small, noisy crowds like Keystone Cops. My friend tells me that these birds are so sociable that when one of them is broody or ailing, the entire group pays her visits. Imagine that.
In a nearby pen, a mother goat angled her body against the rear of a low shed in order to scratch her back, and the two tiny kids trailing behind her did exactly the same. Imitation still seems to be the predominant way many of us learn, particularly the smaller ones.
As I was savoring my homegrown omelet, the farmhouse door appeared to swing open on its own and in strode Lane, one of the trio of dogs that comprise the farm's 24-hour welcoming committee. "That's a tough one to open," his owner observed of this latch-handled door. And if Lane's executing this feat with his front paw seems a wonder, the fact that he has only three legs is a sobering reminder should I feel tempted to dwell on any limitations of my own.
Yes, the sun was barely up and the animal kingdom already had me humbled and thankful — two things that are usually very good for me, maybe the biggest gifts of the day.
But the jackpot was still to come, lurking in a documentary I'd later watch about a former circus elephant named Shirley. After a long day at the keyboard, that would be my downtime and reward.
Forty minutes later I was (still) wracked by sobs. Shirley's is a long story. And I'm a sucker for triumph-in-adversity tales, especially when the adversity part goes into hard, grueling overtime. But I had no idea that I even still knew how to cry in that gulping, non-stop way that my 3-year-old friends do.
Shirley had toughed it out for a long time, enduring for decades a life that delivered the precise opposite of everything an elephant is designed to experience and receive in life. The mere body language of captives like Shirley usually makes plain just how dispiriting they find their circumstances.
Early in life, she'd somehow been savaged by another elephant and left permanently damaged and scarred in a way that made you wince to look at her. The incident was the result of human error, but Shirley's punishment was that she'd never had contact with another member of her species since. And what have zoologists finally discovered in recent years that elephants yearn for most? Why, exactly that kind of company, of course. It isn't as though they've been keeping it a secret.
Shirley's story would have seemed unforgivably harsh had it not been for the kind caretaker, now fairly elderly himself, who'd remained her friend long after he'd retired from the job that brought them together. At the time the documentary was made, the heightened conflict in the story was that Shirley was about to lose this one last friend as she was shipped off to some sort of retirement home for circus elephants. The caretaker wasn't even sure how he was going to survive it himself, and he felt darn sure that Shirley wouldn't.
I was crying quite freely and fiercely by this point, no doubt moved by a seemingly unceasing chain of events that had conspired in Shirley's life to keep her lonely; outraged and saddened at how human ignorance had resulted in repeated suffering and sacrifice for her. The fact that she had been marooned without the very thing that might have made it all bearable — companionship — seemed the most wrenching of all.
But mercifully, there was some unexpected reprieve and redemption in this story. The day that Shirley was transferred to her new home, another younger elephant arrived the same day. It turns out that this was an orphan that Shirley had nurtured way back in her circus days, someone she'd taken under her trunk, so to speak.
Folks had brought the two elephants together with hopes of reuniting them, yet also had trepidation about whether they'd get along, so the two were placed in separate adjacent stalls on the first night before they'd potentially be released into a big pasture together the next day.
Thankfully, the scene that showed their first encounter that night had little narration. Any human input at that point would have felt like taking a flash photo in a very sacred place. The movements of the animals themselves were language enough, as they've always been.
Despite the bars that separated them, the two tenderly embraced each other with their trunks for long hours into the night, each making soft, soothing sounds. I don't know what Shirley was or wasn't feeling after those dozens of lonely years, but I know that this certainly opened up a gusher in my heart.
How humans, who so often can't seem to care for our own bodies properly, can be so opinionated about the limited intelligence and feelings of animals remains a mystery to me. Now, I do share "Dog Whisperer" Cesar Millan's impatience with human tendencies to anthropomorphize animals and project onto them all sorts of misguided expectation and emotion, rather than accept them at the face value of what they offer us.
One helpful reminder that their behavior illustrates is that the power of discernment is a gift and there's great wisdom in using it. As we observe animals grazing, we can see how, from among a huge range of grasses and other plants, they can detect and taste what will benefit them and avoid what will prove harmful. "Were it not for this power of selectivity, the animals would all be dead in a single day; for there are a great many poisonous plants, and animals know nothing of the pharmacopoeia. And yet, observe what a reliable set of scales they have, by means of which to differentiate the good from the injurious," the Baha'i writings describe.
In an age in which relationships of all kinds continue to break down, animals provide lessons for our own benefit each day if we're paying attention. And perhaps the foundation for all of our relationships is rooted in what religious teachings have prescribed for ages, and which is stated once again in the teachings of the Baha'i Faith:
"It is not only their fellow human beings that the beloved of God must treat with mercy and compassion, rather must they show forth the utmost loving-kindness to every living creature. For in all physical respects, and where the animal spirit is concerned, the selfsame feelings are shared by animal and man. ... The feelings are one and the same, whether ye inflict pain on man or on beast. There is no difference here whatever. And indeed ye do worse to harm an animal, for man hath a language, he can lodge a complaint, he can cry out and moan; if injured he can have recourse to the authorities and these will protect him from his aggressor. But the hapless beast is mute, able neither to express its hurt nor take its case to the authorities. ... Therefore is it essential that ye show forth the utmost consideration to the animal, and that ye be even kinder to him than to your fellow man. Train your children from their earliest days to be infinitely tender and loving to animals."
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © Copyright 2007 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.
It all started when I spent a few days at a friend's farm, hoping to advance a writing project with a deadline looming closer than Christmas at Thanksgiving. While humans and civilization were somewhat scarce, animal life, and its gifts and lessons, seemed to be everywhere.
Two doe-eyed cows supplied the cream for my coffee while a pair of errant, curious chickens obligingly left my morning's eggs in some nearby hay. On my way back from the barn, I noticed that the turkeys had cleverly availed themselves of the convenient perch afforded by my nearby car while the guinea fowl scampered around it in small, noisy crowds like Keystone Cops. My friend tells me that these birds are so sociable that when one of them is broody or ailing, the entire group pays her visits. Imagine that.
In a nearby pen, a mother goat angled her body against the rear of a low shed in order to scratch her back, and the two tiny kids trailing behind her did exactly the same. Imitation still seems to be the predominant way many of us learn, particularly the smaller ones.
As I was savoring my homegrown omelet, the farmhouse door appeared to swing open on its own and in strode Lane, one of the trio of dogs that comprise the farm's 24-hour welcoming committee. "That's a tough one to open," his owner observed of this latch-handled door. And if Lane's executing this feat with his front paw seems a wonder, the fact that he has only three legs is a sobering reminder should I feel tempted to dwell on any limitations of my own.
Yes, the sun was barely up and the animal kingdom already had me humbled and thankful — two things that are usually very good for me, maybe the biggest gifts of the day.
But the jackpot was still to come, lurking in a documentary I'd later watch about a former circus elephant named Shirley. After a long day at the keyboard, that would be my downtime and reward.
Forty minutes later I was (still) wracked by sobs. Shirley's is a long story. And I'm a sucker for triumph-in-adversity tales, especially when the adversity part goes into hard, grueling overtime. But I had no idea that I even still knew how to cry in that gulping, non-stop way that my 3-year-old friends do.
Shirley had toughed it out for a long time, enduring for decades a life that delivered the precise opposite of everything an elephant is designed to experience and receive in life. The mere body language of captives like Shirley usually makes plain just how dispiriting they find their circumstances.
Early in life, she'd somehow been savaged by another elephant and left permanently damaged and scarred in a way that made you wince to look at her. The incident was the result of human error, but Shirley's punishment was that she'd never had contact with another member of her species since. And what have zoologists finally discovered in recent years that elephants yearn for most? Why, exactly that kind of company, of course. It isn't as though they've been keeping it a secret.
Shirley's story would have seemed unforgivably harsh had it not been for the kind caretaker, now fairly elderly himself, who'd remained her friend long after he'd retired from the job that brought them together. At the time the documentary was made, the heightened conflict in the story was that Shirley was about to lose this one last friend as she was shipped off to some sort of retirement home for circus elephants. The caretaker wasn't even sure how he was going to survive it himself, and he felt darn sure that Shirley wouldn't.
I was crying quite freely and fiercely by this point, no doubt moved by a seemingly unceasing chain of events that had conspired in Shirley's life to keep her lonely; outraged and saddened at how human ignorance had resulted in repeated suffering and sacrifice for her. The fact that she had been marooned without the very thing that might have made it all bearable — companionship — seemed the most wrenching of all.
But mercifully, there was some unexpected reprieve and redemption in this story. The day that Shirley was transferred to her new home, another younger elephant arrived the same day. It turns out that this was an orphan that Shirley had nurtured way back in her circus days, someone she'd taken under her trunk, so to speak.
Folks had brought the two elephants together with hopes of reuniting them, yet also had trepidation about whether they'd get along, so the two were placed in separate adjacent stalls on the first night before they'd potentially be released into a big pasture together the next day.
Thankfully, the scene that showed their first encounter that night had little narration. Any human input at that point would have felt like taking a flash photo in a very sacred place. The movements of the animals themselves were language enough, as they've always been.
Despite the bars that separated them, the two tenderly embraced each other with their trunks for long hours into the night, each making soft, soothing sounds. I don't know what Shirley was or wasn't feeling after those dozens of lonely years, but I know that this certainly opened up a gusher in my heart.
How humans, who so often can't seem to care for our own bodies properly, can be so opinionated about the limited intelligence and feelings of animals remains a mystery to me. Now, I do share "Dog Whisperer" Cesar Millan's impatience with human tendencies to anthropomorphize animals and project onto them all sorts of misguided expectation and emotion, rather than accept them at the face value of what they offer us.
One helpful reminder that their behavior illustrates is that the power of discernment is a gift and there's great wisdom in using it. As we observe animals grazing, we can see how, from among a huge range of grasses and other plants, they can detect and taste what will benefit them and avoid what will prove harmful. "Were it not for this power of selectivity, the animals would all be dead in a single day; for there are a great many poisonous plants, and animals know nothing of the pharmacopoeia. And yet, observe what a reliable set of scales they have, by means of which to differentiate the good from the injurious," the Baha'i writings describe.
In an age in which relationships of all kinds continue to break down, animals provide lessons for our own benefit each day if we're paying attention. And perhaps the foundation for all of our relationships is rooted in what religious teachings have prescribed for ages, and which is stated once again in the teachings of the Baha'i Faith:
"It is not only their fellow human beings that the beloved of God must treat with mercy and compassion, rather must they show forth the utmost loving-kindness to every living creature. For in all physical respects, and where the animal spirit is concerned, the selfsame feelings are shared by animal and man. ... The feelings are one and the same, whether ye inflict pain on man or on beast. There is no difference here whatever. And indeed ye do worse to harm an animal, for man hath a language, he can lodge a complaint, he can cry out and moan; if injured he can have recourse to the authorities and these will protect him from his aggressor. But the hapless beast is mute, able neither to express its hurt nor take its case to the authorities. ... Therefore is it essential that ye show forth the utmost consideration to the animal, and that ye be even kinder to him than to your fellow man. Train your children from their earliest days to be infinitely tender and loving to animals."
— — —
Phyllis Edgerly Ring, mother of two, is a writer and editor. Her current book project addresses how adults can recognize and nurture children's spiritual nature. She is a former program director at Green Acre Baha'i School in Eliot, Maine, and has been a member of the Baha'i Faith for more than 30 years. Email her at {email columns@bahai.us}columns@bahai.us{/email}. See the website of the Baha'is of the United States for more information. © Copyright 2007 by Phyllis Edgerly Ring.