Surely it’s fine to be grateful for lunch every day, day after day. Each lunch is an opportunity to give thanks for so much.
I count at least eight obvious things to be grateful for in this simple lunch, each with a backstory encompassing many more: Bread, mayonnaise, bacon, avocado, tomato, lettuce, and 7 the bread’s toasted and 8 it’s on a plate. That there is a plate, and what it’s made of, where it came from, how it came to be here, that it was clean and will be clean again with soap and hot water and rinsed with hot clear water, water from a tap the flick of a wrist brings forth, in a stainless steel sink, in a functioning kitchen inside a house with a roof… and how did the house come to be, what countless beings and elements contributed to its building? And the plate goes on… That there is toast from a toaster plugged into a wall hiding wires connected to a string of devices that bring electricity from the sun; the sun itself that gives life to the planet; this planet… and all the growing living things that go into the sandwich itself, and their long trails of origins and how they all came to be here together, in this one lunch… Nothing is separate from anything else. I am grateful for each lunch, a marvel, day after day.
I was going to drive up to get the mail this afternoon, but I glanced out the window as I grabbed my hat, and saw this little family by the front gate, the old doe and her twins. Needless to say I paused my plans until they were out of sight. What a joy to live where I can see this out my window. I’m so grateful for wild babies.
I’m grateful I was able to spend most of the morning in the garden, replenishing tattered prayer flags, potting up some seedlings, pulling a few weeds, and generally appreciating the beauty of the growing things. I am thrilled with the progress of the bulbing fennel, which grows more lush by the day. In the midst of this joy I took a short break for a phone call, and sat where I could see the south woods. A doe strolled by beyond the yarden fence, and a few seconds later I spotted a quick small creature well behind her. Coyote! I thought, but then came context: another doe followed by two tiny twins. I watched them cross the whole expanse of the south woods from the driveway until they disappeared behind the garden fence, trailing the first doe at a distance. I’m grateful for this minutes-long look at the first spotted fawns of the season. It’s rare to catch more than a fleeting glimpse: Once their mothers spot you the spotted fawns vanish.
Wren did well with car training again this evening. Her new harness arrived, so even after tightening her strap, even if she could manage to dangle again, it would be by her shoulder girdle and not by her precious neck. With the aid of treats, we moved more quickly from the lap to the seat to driving, and she was a little more relaxed…
Still, when we returned from the mailbox, she was trembling to get out of the car, and let her relief be known with a happy yodel…
After car training, we took a mocktail and some cheese and crackers down to the pond. Wren pointed a doe outside the fence, and I whispered her over to sit beside me for a cheese treat. As we sat quietly, the doe jumped the fence and came to drink at the pond. I could see that she’s nursing. Maybe she is the mother of the twins. I’m grateful to have a water system that makes this pond possible to provide habitat, food, and water to wildlife in this high desert oasis. The deer, I know, are also grateful for this flowing fresh water.
I don’t have a picture. It happened too fast. This morning we were rambling through the woods, off the main trail, Stellar about two feet ahead of me. He practically stepped on and then stopped and stuck his nose into what I thought was a tiny dead spotted fawn curled up under a tree. I don’t know what happened first. If I hadn’t yelled, “Stellar, leave it!” the fawn might have just lain there. But it seemed like the same instant I called out, the fawn burst up and leapt away, startling both of us. A couple of yards away as it flew the fawn almost trampled Topaz; it screamed (a tiny little scream) and did a half-cartwheel, knocked against some small limbs, leapt a down log, and quickly disappeared.
Topaz followed it with her intent gaze, and though I looked I could no longer see it. I think she could, and I think it didn’t run far. We all three stood there for a few minutes to catch our breath. Then I asked Siri, “What happens when a fawn gets spooked?” seeking some reassurance that it would be fine.
None of Siri’s answers related to a fawn, and were along the lines of “Afraid of your phone? Here’s how to overcome that fear.”
So I tried again, spelling FAWN, and Siri directed me to a number of options which all told me not to disturb a fawn. Too late for that! But one of them did say, if I had removed a fawn from where I found it hiding, to return it to the same area and its mother would come searching for it. So I set aside my anxiety, trusting in the strong maternal bond to reunite the pair, and we rambled on our way. I’m grateful for spotted fawns, for seeing one so tiny so close, so fast and strong.