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until I realized that I had taken him from his family. I was
home alone with my dad while my mom was 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.” 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.
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