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The Troubled Squirrel
by Steve Andreas
© 1995 Real People Press

Once upon a time, or twice down within a time, there was a very troubled ground squirrel. His troubles were not simple ones, like his fear when the shadow of a hawk swept across the ground nearby, or when a coyote's yelp split the night. Nor was his pain like the ache of an injured leg, for at all those times he knew what to do or what not to do.

Often he felt very young and very, very small; at other times he felt very old, and bone-weary. But mostly he felt confused, and frustrated, and very lost. When he thought about his troubles, it was as if he were at the shady side of the pond in the meadow, groping in the muddy water for a slippery bottom-dweller. At times he would feel a tantalizing touch within his grasp, and seem to be at the brink of understanding, before it slithered away into the swirling gloom.

At other times his troubles were like a cloud, muting the colors around him and casting a dark shadow over all his days. Yet when he searched the heavens for the source of this shadow, the wide blue sky gave him no answer.

At other times his troubles seemed like soft voices, as if just out of reach, and he strained his ears to hear what meaning they might reveal to him. But always it was only a breeze or a large insect rattling the stems of the dry grasses or the leaves over his head.

After much thought and anguish, his mind turned to the many stories he had heard of the oldest and wisest squirrel who, it was said, lived alone in the deepest burrow in the meadow. All the stories about the old squirrel were curious and puzzling, full of strange twists and unpredictable behavior. Some said the the old squirrel was wise beyond imagining, while others said that he was crazy, or worse. Others said he was both, but there was no telling one from the other. When he thought of all these stories his mind swirled with images, sounds and feelings that reached no resolution.

At last, one evening when the weight of his troubles pressed down particularly heavily upon his shoulders, he decided to seek out the wise old squirrel, come what may. As he slowly descended to deeper and deeper levels, the activities of the other squirrels and the sounds of their comings and goings gradually faded away. As he crept though these burrows where the dust and dampness had not been disturbed--for who knows how long--the sound of his soft breathing and his footfalls echoed in the long-abandoned chambers. Sometimes when he paused, he thought he could hear the gentle heartbeat of the earth itself.

As he explored burrows he had never visited before, in some he found only cobwebs and old nests made of leaves and twigs, the hulls of nuts and seeds, and other signs of the life that had once occupied them. In others he found the walls sparkling with tiny grains of some shiny crystal that he had never encountered in the shallower burrows nearer the surface. In yet others he found fragile patterns of roots and spiderwebs that seemed to welcome him and beckon him deeper and deeper.

As the soft light faded into almost total darkness, he seemed at the same time to be traveling deeper and deeper into himself, into unseen and unheard realms that began to whisper soft and poignant meanings to him.

Eventually he reached a level where only one burrow still angled downward. It was a large burrow, free of dust and cobwebs, and the smell and warmth of life radiated from its walls, a little like the sound of a soft choir in a great cathedral. As he reached the end of this burrow and his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he saw before him an immense squirrel whose eyes were closed, and whose fur was almost completely white with age. Without opening its eyes, the great white squirrel muttered, "What do you want?" As the troubled squirrel began to pour out his misery, he was astonished to feel his unhappiness empty out of him as cleanly as if he were a pants pocket that someone had turned inside out to see what was there, spilling its contents out into the sunlight where they could be seen clearly. It seemed as if the old squirrel was picking through the jigsaw puzzle of his life with gentle, loving hands, carefully separating pieces that had been jammed together, and rearrangi
ng and uniting pieces that had been long been separated, simply curious to see what image would slowly emerge from the scattered bits of color.

He remembered a time when he was much younger, watching other squirrels playing in the pond, fascinated by the fragmented reflections flashing on the surface of the water. And when the squirrels left the water, watching the scattered dancing bits of light slowing their dance and gradually coalescing into larger patterns of color and shape, until finally he saw an image of himself, still moving. And as he watched this image of himself slowly move toward stillness, he felt the calmness of the quieting water enter his body and refresh him.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the great white squirrel's eyes opened and he began to hum a soft low sound. As he gazed into these eyes, he felt a comfort and safety he had never known before, and he seemed to be drawn into the heart of life itself. He felt himself welcomed to slide into their depths and into a peaceful reverie in which he lost all track of time.

In this timeless realm some of his thoughts seemed like soap bubbles riding within a gentle breeze, until they popped and vanished, while others gradually became so tangible that they seemed to pervade throughout all space and time, and through every fiber of his being.

At the same time, the myriad sounds of his nature rose and fell around him and gradually become a quiet, yet joyous song that conveyed the courage and majesty of his simple life. Tiny imperceptible movements--like tiny eager minnows swimming in his body releasing tensions into fluid movement, told him that his body too, was participating fully in this joyous learning, changing, rearranging.

These movements, images, and sounds stirred each other to greater searching and expression, and gradually melded into a subtle dance that resonated with every particle of his being, a moving that he would carry reverently in his body to the end of his days.

Some time later, as he found himself crawling slowly upward through the burrows, he felt a new lightness that told him that so much had changed in a delightfully solid way, though exactly what it was, or how it had happened, he couldn't begin to describe.

From "Is There Life Before Death" by Steve Andreas, Moab, UT Real People Press, 1995. reprinted by permission. (Page reference for "The Troubled Squirrel." pp. 83-86)


Steve Andreas

Ed's note: Thankyou Steve Andreas......Proud to have you as a member!