Small Small Small
A very tiny manifesto.
Hubs was in a whimsical mood last weekend, so we diverted from our usual lakeside walking path. He’d heard that a beaver dammed a river nearby, and we strolled along its banks for a while, searching for whatever a dam looks like. We spotted a cluster of dense reeds, not unlike a thatched roof, but couldn’t get close enough to determine if anyone was home.
Our beaver quest was a bust, but the area was chock-full of other busyness. Fawn-soft bunnies, hopping and nibbling, an inky black garter snake with yellow stripes. Monarch butterflies, stunningly gorgeous and impossibly fragile. Shiny-shelled turtles, sunning themselves next to huge flopping fish. A stately blue heron reigns over this part of the lake, dignified stillness incarnate, until a lady heron calls and he opens his huge wings to fly to her side.
The birdlife here is stunning, and that’s because this area is a designated sanctuary with over 200 species in residence. On Spring days it makes your head spin, so much feathery flapping, so many songs and calls.
The general noise level takes a bit to get used to. But then you’re in the flow of their music, and it’s heavenly, until it’s not. And by that I mean until an eagle comes around.
If you’ve never seen one in the wild before, let me just say that no pics or vids can do it justice. An eagle is a massive, majestic, marvel of Nature, and its beauty and power takes your breath away. The one that swooped in on us was particularly large, an alpha male thrumming with strength and vigor.
While I was gazing at it and thinking these things, something in my awareness changed. As the eagle opened his wings above us, and the sparrows and swallows and crows and chickadees opened their mouths to scream, I realized that to these smaller birds, the eagle is a fucking draggon, whose beak and claws are daggers that can end the life of someone they love.
The collective volume of the tiny birds became almost unbearable, a cacophony of panic. They trailed the daggerdaggon in groups, jabbing toward him, then pinwheeling away. He was utterly calm, scanning their nests with his steely glare, searching for a snack, or even a full meal.
But eventually the eagle got tired of the friction and flew off to another part of the lake. The air unclenched and the sky cleared. The remaining birds made soothing noises for each other. I swallowed the gigantic lump that had risen in my throat, and said a small prayer for small mercies.
I don’t know. I’m going through something hard, and everything feels like metaphor, so I’ll just go for it: our sky is full of daggerdraggons right now. For the past few years we have been circling and jabbing at them, without much effect. Our voices have been raised to levels of alarm that I never thought possible.
Yet somehow, despite the ongoing reign of terror, my brain has begun to imagine what I hope is the near future, a time when we are taking back power. I can feel how much wreckage we will have to contend with, and how much healing will be needed. The task is overwhelming, but then I return to what I see in Nature, and what I understand in my own life: small small small.
The pain feels so enormous, the injuries both physical and moral, done to us and people in our communities. But smallness is what’s called for, I’m sure of it. A single vote is small, but many small votes can add up to massive change. A single dollar is definitely small, but you know how they add up. Big dreams often require small, strategic steps to manifest. We can’t stop dreaming, but we can wake ourselves up.
That’s all I can muster today. You can register to vote here. You can donate to your favorite candidates here. Please take a small step, and feel its power reverberating in all of us.