The Universe Brought Me Antlers
My morning walk through the woods today was cold yet tolerable, I still didn’t see another human until the third field where a floppy Doodle was being let off leash to romp in the fresh powder. I was listening to a podcast talk from meditation teacher Tara Brach on finding spiritual refuge in three centers: awareness, truth (or path), and love. I don’t listen to her meditations, as I can’t close my eyes when I’m walking the dog, but her talks always include charming allegories and kernels of resonance that start my day like a good sermon might.
Entering into the wooded path after the fourth open field, Mack dropped the tennis ball at the sloped split as he always does – I saw a flash of movement ahead and grabbed the loose leash from around my neck without thinking. Wildlife or person, both with and without their own happy trotting dog, calls for caution. I paused and saw a deer poised by the river; I couldn’t see if there were more but this one stood still, facing away from us. If I put Mack on leash to scurry past as I usually do (eyes down, quick but soft pace, a gentle sing song Good Morning to teach the dog there is no threat), the deer would likely feel stalked as we moved in the same direction. I decided instead to keep to the right path that moves away from the river, towards the hidden pond. We meandered down the pond path, Mack skipping and scurrying to get the tennis ball I awkwardly kicked for him (often needing to pace my steps to get the ball on the right cadence like a weirdo).
I heard Tara speaking of awareness amidst trance, truth that echoes internally with universal being, uncomplicated love that brings a sense of safety. My eyes were trained, as usual, on the path ahead, watching for flashes of animal movement or woolen hats and parkas – triggers to leash the dog and tuck away the icy tennis ball until we could play without disturbing anyone.
On the upper path to my right, nestled between the edge of the woods and the parking lots frequently patrolled by forest rangers of various stripes, a woman raised her voice enough to break through Tara’s voice. A white woman of indeterminate age, she was following her leashed dog, another fluffy pup equally enjoying the brisk air, pulling its leash taut with eager momentum.
“Dogs should be leashed in the forest preserve,” I heard only segments of her admonishment through my Airpods. “A refuge for wildlife!”
I raised my mittened hand in a mild gesture of Got It, you can stop hollering. Heard.
I walked on, wrestling with the many feelings that came up. Defensive at first, arguing back to her the various ways her Karen-like chiding was ill-directed. She had no idea I walked these woods nearly every day; I was keenly aware what was and wasn’t a posted rule. They were as much my woods as they were hers.
Yes, I was breaking a rule. I’m not nearly the only one; I’d spent the previous day finally chatting up the owner of an off-leash German Short Hair I’d seen for months without meeting. I’m not sure Zerg’s owner even carries a leash.
Yes, I reach to leash Mack as soon as I spot people. If, however, they also have a dog that’s off-leash (which happens nearly every day), I leave him off, as it balances the scales for strange dogs meeting each other. They sniff and circle, maybe nip or growl if someone is getting too close to a boundary, and then we go on our way, praises the good boys and good girls for behaving, and wish each other a great day.
Yes, this forest preserve is home to a lot of wildlife, but its primary purpose is not as a refuge. Our shared purpose in these woods is to enjoy it together: peacefully, gently, respectfully. I do it better than most. I have changed my path more times than I can count; I give wide berth to deer, rabbits, coyotes, gaggles and gaggles and gaggles of geese. If, by chance, we encounter deer when the dog is off leash, he will give a little charge to clear our path. He wants to protect me. They scurry a little, far enough to feel safe from the boundary the dog set, then settle back to what they were doing. They aren’t scared or scarred, they continue foraging or hanging out or whatever it is deer do when it’s 20 degrees and snowy. Gossip? Complain about me?
Yes, the dog being off leash occasionally disrupts their peace for a few moments. Should I feel guilty for it? Was Karen’s admonishment deserved? I reminded myself she wasn’t talking to me, exactly: she didn’t know my life, my days, my practices, my considerations. She was reacting in a single moment, not speaking to the breadth of my behavior. And I had to admit she was speaking from a place of love: for the woods, for the deer, for the balance of and respect for nature. She wanted to protect the preserve. She meant well.
And yes, I am doing something I’m not supposed to do, by a particular set of rules. Should I stop doing it? Cease the daily habit that has become the most reliable source of unbridled joy for both me and my dog? He literally skips through the snow; I laugh out loud when when he catches the whipped ball in a particularly agile leap or when he proudly sources a giant tree branch like an Olympic javelin thrower (I think that’s too big for you, buddy). I move through this nature with my whole self, present and aware and deeply grateful to be allowed through. To be not just witness to the beauty of the streaming sun rays and snow in trees and bubbling river and wildflowers and bright birds, but to be part of it in my own being-ness. We belong here too.
As we pass the graffiti-covered bridge I adore, Mack pauses, knowing he will be leashed for a final scramble up to the public path, where we cross back into the first open field that will lead home. It is empty now, no one ahead or behind (I always look) – I unclip the leash for the last time and Mack romps to await the tennis ball again. We fluff through the snowy field, past the empty parking lot and the barren picnic gazebo. As I pass a massive oak and step over craggy sticks jutting up from the snow, I stop at an unusual spike and do a double take. It is not an intricately formed branch, but rather two perfect antlers, freshly shed by what seemed like a fairly small deer.
I pick them up and tote them home, averting my eyes from the raw nubs where they had just been released from tender flesh. I will store the antlers in the garage while they heal, then find a prominent perch for them in the house. I want to remember I’m a being that coexists with wildlife. Perhaps my respectful awareness is appreciated. Maybe this small offering of nature is a sign that I am, indeed, on the right path. I’ll take it.
