*WARNING - THIS BLOG IS ABOUT AS HAPPY AS THE FIRST 10 MINUTES OF A DISNEY MOVIE. PROCEED WITH CAUTION*
Spring and summer in my backyard means a lot of things: days lounging on the patio in front of a big movie screen and fire pit; several garden beds with blooming perennials and seedling volunteers; the satisfying smell of the earth as I dig up weeds and plant new flowers; and more wildlife than I could usually see walking through the woods. We have chipmunks, rabbits, squirrels, more species of birds than I can count (including woodpeckers that have put a pretty big dent in my shed), and a family of deer that has, for the last 6 years, given birth to a new generation of fawns in our bushes each spring.
Each year our deer have gotten more comfortable in our yard, and this year they have confidently roamed around, grazing and nursing while we have been back there working. We have felt particularly special when doe and fawn have come back, nursed, and then the doe has left the fawn with us, giving us a glance as she leaves the yard as if to say, "Hey I'm going to run some errands, could you watch him for a bit?" We've been able to walk right up to him and take pictures and I love going back and looking at the development of this wobbly, scrawny fawn who could barely open his eyes, to this bright-eyed, attentive creature who can already leap a 4-foot fence after just a few short weeks of life.
A few days ago I was on my way home from church and just as I was about to turn on to my own street, I saw my sweet fawn across the street, headed toward my yard. I was horrified as I watched it bound into traffic and I was crushed as I saw him tossed across the hood of an oncoming car. I parked my car and then walked up the street to see if there was any hope to be found. By the time I got close to the scene, several cars had stopped, including the woman who had hit him. As I approached, he managed to stand up and he slowly made his way through my neighbor's yard to my fence with a noticeably broken leg and a bloody nose. I've spent a lot of time with wildlife, and even though he was still alert and moving around, I knew there were no guarantees for his long-term survival.
More immediately, though, there was now a crowd gathered on my street. I'm sure they all wanted to have a part in helping, but I really wanted to handle him without a group of well-intentioned strangers. While I assured the onlookers that my veterinarian was right down the street and convinced them I would do what I could to get him there, the woman whose car had hit him stood there, tears streaming down her face, quiet sobs escaping her lungs. I wanted to grieve on my own. I was angry. I was devastated. Had she been paying attention? Was she going too fast? I didn't know. There was no way I could possibly re-live the situation through her eyes. I couldn't begin to estimate what she had gone through in that moment.
So ... there was nothing to be gained by spreading my own grief and anger to her. Instead, in a moment of clarity and calm, I decided to stand with her and reassure her. I didn't know if there was anything she could have done differently, but I told her there was nothing she could have done. I didn't know if he would survive, but I told her that he seemed ok and that he had a safe place to be in my backyard. I didn't know if I would be able to catch or contain him to get him medical attention, but I assured her that I would and that he would get the care he needed. There was nothing comforting to me about my own words, but there was no reason to send her away with her own grief when it was so easy for me to ease it by spending a few extra moments with her.
The fawn left my yard with his mother and I don't know how he has done over the last few days. I've been watching and ready to fulfill my promises of help if I could, but I know nature will take its course. I've been thinking a lot about my interactions with people and how often I'm confronted with the choice to either spread my own grief and anger about things or find a way to provide comfort in a situation. How often does a post on social media get my blood-pressure boiling and I could reply with a vicious and brilliantly cutting attack on the person who posted, or I could find some words to redirect the conversation and try to show that there is common ground. I don't have most of the answers (even though sometimes I like to think I do). But I always have a choice with my words and what I choose to put out in the world.