For ten years my dog Lily and I have walked through our local community and on through neighboring ones. Even if we don’t know all their names, over time we have come to recognize familiar faces of people and their pets. We have witnessed the circle of life, rescued baby alligators, tug-of-warred after squirrels and cats, and observed many flocks of ducklings dwindle almost before our very eyes.
This year was no different.
It is January in Florida. A walkers-only bridge connects the communities of Watermill and River Grove in Merritt Island. Early last week, while peering over the side, beneath it I observed a Muscovy duck protecting at least a dozen chicks. I saw them again two days later. Only half the chicks remained. While I felt a sense of sadness for the mother duck, I also understood that it is nature’s way to share its bounty.
I hoped to see the feathered family again, but after another week passed, I didn’t see them. A stream flowing under the bridge connects two large, well-stocked retention areas in those neighborhoods. No doubt the ducks were foraging in another area.
Today as Lily and I crossed the bridge, we approached a man walking his yorkie. We see them regularly and often wave and say hi. I shortened Lily’s leash and pulled her close to my side.
I stopped. “Good morning,” I said. “Have you seen the mother duck with her chicks lately? I saw one here last week.”
“No, I haven’t. How many chicks did you see?”
“About ten the first time I saw them last week,” I answered, “and the next time— maybe half that many.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s about how many I counted, too.” He continued talking, as neighbors do. “One time a duck with only one leg built a nest right behind my house. I live in the blue one by the pond.” He pointed West. “I watched her build that nest and lay her eggs. Ten chicks came out of it. She lost them all. And then, a gator got her.” His voice rose with passion. He raised one hand to the air as if imploring the heavens. “I asked God, ‘Why did he allow so much suffering to that one duck—I mean, to have lost her leg, to lose all her babies, and then get eaten by an alligator.’”
I was momentarily stunned by his declaration. I wanted to say that I have observed this circle of life many times. I wanted to tell him that I grew up eating wild game, that it’s the law of the wild to eat and be eaten. Not that I have a thing for alligators, but they have to eat too.
Instead, I thought of my morning lesson from A Course in Miracles[i]. “There is another way of looking at the world.” This man, my neighbor, was definitely seeing it differently than I was. We are all equal and worthy.
So, I bit my philosophical, know-it-all tongue and replied, “That’s a good question.”
We both looked at the stream flowing under the bridge. There were no ducks. We shared a quiet moment, a God moment, before he looked back at me.
I broke the silence. “My name is Cindy.”
“I’m Charlie. You from Watermill?” he asked.
“No, I’m from South Merritt Estates.”
Lily’s tug on the leash told me it was time to continue our walk. “Well, gotta go. She’s on a mission.” Hopefully, we’d see the ducks somewhere else. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
“I probably won’t remember your name next time. Cindy?”
“That’s right. Have a nice day. See you again.” I waved and turned away.
As I walked along, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for having held my tongue. There are many ways to see the world. Maybe Charlie is a vegetarian. I’m not. Neither of us were wrong. Sadly, the Muscovy is much desired for Foie Gras! Alligators are harvested for their skins and their tails. Lily would eat a rabbit in a heartbeat. I didn’t need to remind Charlie that alligators are carnivores.
I was reminded of God’s commandment. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Be kind.
Try telling that to a hungry alligator.
[i] A Course in Miracles: Circle of Atonement ©2017 by the Circle of Atonement, Inc.