Our neighborhood has more wild rabbits than we deserve. Despite the dogs and cats that sneak into our yard every spring and a variety of hawks ever ready to snatch a tasty meal, two or three rabbits usually manage to survive and call our yard home. And who can blame them? We offer a pond for their drinking pleasure, juicy spring bulbs and perennials to munch on and plenty of places to hide. The backyard haven I refer to as my personal Garden of Eden also attracts chipmunks, squirrels—some that can fly—birds, raccoons and even possums.
Every year my partner works hard to relocate the rabbits who mow down our tulips. He’s also tried electronic deterrents, cayenne pepper and even soap flakes of a particular brand, which rabbits supposedly hate. That strategy did encourage a large female to relocate before she could construct a nest outside our dining room window. But her young adult offspring from the year before continued to frolic among the leaves and soap shavings—they seemed to love their new play area. And last fall, one of them loved their new doggie playmate as well.
Schnickelfritz looks to be about the size of the teenage rabbits he loves to chase. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten his poor eyesight and sense of smell lead him in the wrong direction when my partner sends him outside to “get ‘em!” The rabbits watch placidly as Fritzie runs throughout the yard in pointless pursuit. Most run toward an escape route under the fence when he starts in their direction. But toward the end of last year’s snowy autumn, we noticed one of them wasn’t actually leaving the yard. It hid behind bushes or between the legs of our outdoor furniture, turning toward Fritz to watch and wait.
One evening, we caught them nose-to-nose in the backyard—Fritz had stopped barking and the rabbit wasn’t running. That’s when we realized they weren’t enemies. Unlike our 80-pound greyhound, our nine-pound chihuahua didn’t intend to kill or maim the rabbit, who would have won the fight in any case; they were chasing each other . . . playing tag.
A few nights later, we spotted Fritzie’s friend making his way along the lighted walkway just outside the sliding glass door of our four-season porch. First he hopped by from right to left. A few minutes later he hopped back in the other direction, slowing down enough for us to admire his multicolored coat, beautiful against the snow at the edge of our pond. And then he stopped, right in front of the glass door.
When the rabbit turned to give us a left profile view, I grabbed my phone and tiptoed toward him, stopping to take a photo I hoped would be clear enough to enlarge. I moved a few steps closer and snapped another. Then the unthinkable happened—turning to face the window, the little guy stopped. He was looking inside.
As I crouched down to his level, willing him to stay put so I could capture his face, his expression posed a question straight out of my childhood: “Can Fritzie come out to play?”
I’ll never forget that moment, not only because I lay inches away from a wild rabbit’s face–that was magical enough. Fritzie’s friend also had a message for me.
“What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” he seemed to ask, quoting famous poet Mary Oliver. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I do recognize you,” I answered.
His was the face of every animal I had ever encountered up close. The wild creatures who show up year after year, season after season, to remind me of my dream. The one I’ve put off since second grade.
My encounter with this particular rabbit ended once I opened the door–I somehow believed, as I would have as a child, that he would actually want to touch noses. Of course, he hopped away. But since that night I’ve wondered why I broke the promise I made to myself at age seven. Why I’ve delayed doing something I’ve always known would bring great joy and satisfaction to my life.
Well, I have things to do. As a woman, I’ve been trained to help others reach their goals. Years ago, I was hired as a speechwriter to make my clients look and sound good. And I loved doing it. Now, as a daughter, I gladly travel between states to visit my parents as often as I can. I enjoy celebrating holidays with my local family and sharing important milestones with friends. I seek ways to use my gifts on behalf of the people my culture enslaved, stole from or marginalized.
Who has time for dreams?
Besides, anyone who can afford to stop working has been trained to RELAX upon retirement. We’re reminded over and over that we’ve earned it. During retirement we’re supposed to socialize, travel, play golf or pickle ball and read at our leisure.
But what if that doesn’t suit me? What if the anxiety I try to tamp down with busy-ness is my dream knocking at the door—the idea I keep telling myself I will attend to when . . . when . . . when what?
I understand how important it is to relax. I believe with all my heart that as human beings, nothing brings more meaning to our lives than serving and helping others.
Unfortunately, I’ve left someone out of that equation—myself.
Flight attendants instruct parents to secure their own oxygen masks before attending to their children—clear thinking becomes paramount during an emergency.
My life may not be an emergency, but won’t I be a better daughter, grandmother, partner or friend if I nurture my creativity along with everything else? I finally have the time. I’m lucky to still have my health. At this particular moment, no one else depends on me.
Perhaps it’s time to manifest that cozy writing cabin—the one I’ve imagined, located in a light-filled woods next to a stream, where I can fish. I see myself observing the animals whose space I share, making friends with those who dare to come close. Talking to them. Creating a world.
“It’s not too late,” says the rabbit. The animals are calling.
What will I do with my one wild and precious life?
