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at work, so I asked Dad to take me back to
the school. I desperately wanted, and needed, to take my new friend
back to his home. Dad couldn’t get me to stop crying, so he called
my mom at work. She first asked Dad why he wouldn’t just take me
back to the school to return the caterpillar. Dad said, "I’m not
taking her back to the school just for a stupid caterpillar." In her
ever-patient way, she told him to put me back on the phone. Mom
(being well in tune with my sense of the dramatic and my emotional
life) told me to put the caterpillar outside in the bush beside our
porch. She promised that we’d check on him when she got home. If he
was still where I left him when she got home, she’d take me back to
the school. If he was gone, he had found a new family. Of course he
was gone when she got home, but I couldn’t appreciate my mom’s
genius for many years. Through many incidents like that, she
fostered my connection with and adoration of nature. She never once
made me feel silly for caring so deeply, and she often joined me in
my sense of wonder. Though she lived on a farm and raised rabbits, a
nest of baby bunnies in our yard still captures her heart as much as
it captures mine.
Now as an adult, I am still filled with joy and wonder when I encounter
nature. My most memorable experience was running across a fawn while
hiking. I know we experienced the same moment that Annie and the weasel
felt: "Our eyes locked, and someone threw away the key" (Dillard
878). The fawn was too young to be afraid, so we stood in perfect
stillness and quiet, staring at each other. I creeped closer and closer
slowly, wondering when it would get spooked. The moment was
perfect. The fawn’s soft brown eyes looked at me inquisitively and its
ears twitched. It was just as fascinated with me as I was with it. It even
took an uneasy step toward me as youthful curiosity overpowered caution.
The moment was only broken when the fawn’s mother stepped into the
clearing. She snorted at me and started running into another section of
the woods. The fawn ran away suddenly to follow her, and I felt the
"yank of separation" that Annie felt. Our connection was
instantly broken, and I frowned in disappointment when the fawn vanished
into the woods. It was a beautiful moment while it lasted, and I cherish
it.
I will forever be grateful to my mom for completely understanding me and
nurturing my over-sensitivity instead of trying to squelch it. Though
other people have told me I am "too thin-skinned" and "too
touchy-feely," she made me realize that my feelings are perfectly
valid. Thanks to my mom, I feel like my sensitivity is a gift, not a
fault. She is the most wonderful person in the world, and I only hope I
can be the mother she is. |
