Death and Fierce Compassion
05.31.2012 The kids were playing their game system in the back of the car and I was ruminating on the nature of awareness.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a deer heading across the highway maybe 200 feet in front of me. In Southern Indiana, this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. This time, however…
There was an older blue car in my lane whose path could not avoid the frantic deer.
The back of the deer and the front corner of the car collided. The deer stumbled into the grassy median and the driver of the car quickly pulled off to the side of the road, as did I.
I went on high alert. I was watching the deer, struggling to stand, her head flopping up and then down as she tried to move a body that was no longer responding. I was watching my phone, dialing 911, trying to calmly share what had just happened. I was watching my rear view mirror and the road behind me, anxiously fretting every time a car approached. I was watching my kids, who seemed confused but (horridly? thankfully?) disinterested. And I was watching the person in the car ahead of me, cell phone in hand, surveying the front of her car…
She looks exactly like my grandma.
Timidly, I took a few steps away from my car. I danced between flagging cars away from our side of the road, painful glances at the deer who, by this point, was resting with her head on the ground, and the woman (my grandma – she looks like my grandma) who was visibly shaking.
I had to talk to her. When there was a large break in traffic, I asked her if she was ok…checked her dented front fender. Tears in both of our eyes as we re-hashed the facts…I had to hug her.
Eventually an officer and someone from animal management showed up. We all knew. I kept talking to the woman, keeping us focused on us, look at the car, mention again how good it is that she is ok, …
We saw the woman from animal management go over and, with a visible kindness, face the deer.
Thankfully traffic isn’t heavy, perhaps we can find that piece that came off your car, anything, just keep talking, keep talking…
No conversation could have been loud enough to cover the single gun shot that pierced the air.
We just hugged.
I offered my name. Marsha offered hers. We exchanged a final hug. What more could we say?
I left her, the officer, and the animal management employee who had seen the deer’s final moments in this life.
I cried.
This is one story, one view, on short series of minutes that could otherwise have little effect. For Marsha and I, it did. And you know what?
I’m thankful for that.
I’m glad to be the type of person who cries after watching an animal die. I’m glad to be the type of person who stops, feels the instinct, and offers a hug to a stranger. I’m glad to be the type of person who feels for Marsha, the deer, the woman who had to make the choice to end the deer’s life.
And I’m angry.
I’m angry because I am unique in this way.
I’m angry because I know that of the 100% of people I would share this with, 90% wouldn’t shed a tear. (I’d venture a fairly high percentage would give some response about thinning out the deer population.)
On the way home, a hawk flew right in front of our car, wings open, a peaceful glide through our awareness. 90% wouldn't think twice about this either.
Through my tears, something burns within me.
It is a fierce compassion that demands attention.
It is a being within that holds a sword and, one determined, unhurried step at a time, marches towards those who would laugh about or ignore the deer that probably still lies in that grassy median.
This way of being is deeper than the anger, beyond any emotion-driven response. There is not a typical reaction of damn it you will see it MY WAY. There is only compassion, a compassion that does not whisper and ask, ok, maybe, could you possibly listen to me now, I mean, only if now is an ok time….
The sword slices through illusion to reveal the being that the laughs try to protect.
This way of being, MY way of being, for I am finally owning it, is gently powerful and determinedly compassionate without apology. THIS IS THE TYPE OF WORLD IN WHICH I WANT TO LIVE, thus, this is the type of person I choose to be.
Tonight, I send prayers to Marsha. I wish her a peaceful night’s sleep. I send prayers to the woman whose gun remains holstered with one less bullet.
I send prayers out into the world that we may all find our pain, our anger, and yes – our laughs and complacencies – and that we may acknowledge it all. That we may see our way through our fears and our jaded attitudes and, without judgment for any way of being, start living in our own lives as we want this world to be.
Namaste.
compassion, death, real life
Reader Comments (4)
The world needs us more than we could ever know, Beautiful Heart. And I know that the Universe feels your prayers, as do the hearts of all of those involved, whether they can acknowledge that or not. It is frustrating to the Compassionate heart that there isn't more of this kind of Love in the world, and yet, look...we have provided some where they may have been none.
Sending big hugs to your tender bits.
Light and love always.
What a heartbreaking story. How could anyone not cry? I am so sorry for what happened to the deer, Marsha and you. It's something that has scared your heart, and I send you my love. I will never ever forget the time my husband and I were driving in the country and came upon a deer in the road that had clearly just been hit. The poor thing was left in the road as many many cars passed by, eager to get past the nuisance in the road. They didn't even seem to think twice about stopping, but we did. I was in tears. His hips were shattered and antlers busted, scraped and broken. We didn't know what to do but we had to do something. I stopped traffic and one single car stopped. The man got out and asked if he could help. I called 911 and was told a sheriff was on the way. As they pulled the deer out of the road, the least they could do to honor and help him, he awoke and in shock, pain and wild eyed with fear. I felt paralyzed and tried to tell him it would be ok, we were helping him. I will never forget what he looked like, or how he looked, helplessly trying to get away but couldn't. I stepped back to pray, and so as not to scare him anymore. He finally lay his head down in defeat, broken. We held traffic away until the sheriff arrived and the three men pulled him off to the side of the road. There was nothing to be done, but I still hoped and cried and hoped some more. Eventually, the officer choked back wet eyes, with ears searing red from his own pain, knowing what he had to do, and asked us to walk the other direction. No one had to say another word. We all did. We heard a single shot. I cried and we turned around to see the officer holster his weapon. He was teary-eyed too. I said a prayer to the universe to and for that sweet deer. And the officer assured that he would be picked up. It makes me sob recalling my story as well. You are not alone, and it is something neither of us will forget. But I am grateful for people like you, full of compassion and love. Thank you for telling his story.
Manjushri bodhisattva... that is the energy you are carrying, Lisa. Thank you for this beautiful, heartbreaking story from your life.
Lisa, my heart is with you and the others involved in this. YOU are not alone. I was driving home the other day, and there was a box turtle crossing the road. The are is rural, but it was at an intersection and people( younger kids) tend to drive fast in the area. I stopped, picked the little guy up and put him in my vehicle. When I got home, Ricky and I walk him over to our neighbors pond waaaay away from the road and said out goodbyes and wished him well. That night, I wondered if I did the right thing. It was less than a mile away, but it was new territory. The next morning driving to work, there was a tutrle in the road that was hit by a car. I cried, oh how I cried. They arent big like a dear, but they are living creatures. How could someone.... and then I thought, it may have been an accident. My heart was sad. We are out here and we save the ones we can. Gosh, how I wish I could help more. Thank you for sharing this and thank you for really making me see something in this that maybe I didnt see so clearly. Hugs to you. xoxo Sandy