Berry Mice
“If one day I see a small bird and recognize it, a thin thread will form between me and that bird. If I just see it but don’t really recognize it, there is no thin thread. If I go out tomorrow and see and really recognize that same individual small bird again, the thread will thicken and strengthen just a little. Every time I see and recognize that bird, the thread strengthens. Eventually it will grow into a string, then a cord, and finally a rope. This is what it means to be a Bushman. We make ropes with all species of the creation in this way.
”
In America today, it’s harder to vote than it is to carry a gun. Harder, it seems, to love than to hate. Certainly, it’s harder to hear the Divine amid the chorus of desecration. But there’s another world within this one, where the voices of the Sacred speak in a language of blossoming and in the countless interactions that shape the Natural World. The language of thriving is as complex as that of struggle, perhaps more so.
In what I (erroneously) think of as ‘my’ garden, mice burrow under the straw mulch tucked around the strawberries to make their nests. They eat the strawberries the same way as bears eat salmon, taking just one luscious bite from the sweet, pink bellies and tossing the rest to rot. I am dismayed at the bumper crop of inedibly-gnawed ripe berries.
This is the third iteration of the strawberry patch. I’m doing better at fine-tuning the soil and now the plants are thriving, with the accompanying challenge that critters have multiplied, too. I am unsure how to interpret this parallel success. Does it indicate improvement or imbalance, or does it communicate something else?
Until now, the growing population of mice was just another dilemma arising from the mismatch of my desires and those of the non-human Selves who outnumber me. When I see the nibbled strawberries, I immediately wonder how to discourage the mice, or, better yet, get rid of them, but without poison or traps. Even the traps that make it possible to remove an animal without killing them, present a dilemma: when rodent populations are diminished, they multiply faster. And yet, a few weeks ago, when a weasel appeared and the mice disappeared, I rejoiced. Not just because there were more intact strawberries, but because I hoped that it meant my garden had officially merged with my neighbors’ empty acres around me. Perhaps a step toward natural balance of the larger system. That would be fantastic! And it would also let me off the hook.
One afternoon a few weeks ago, as I surveyed the damaged berries, I heard a voice in my head. It spoke in images with something like narration. It went something like this: Do not begrudge them this luxury. They nibble on behalf of their caged brothers and sisters, indoors all their short lives, tortured in medical labs to make medicines that we hope will save us from our cruelty. There, the mice live tiny lives without sunlight, without rain, without wind, without fog, without stars. Let them feel soil between their toes; let their noses twitch in the cool ocean air and their mouse-lips be stained red by the berries they feast on.
The advice was both unexpected and uncomfortable. At a time like now, caged mice might seem insignificant. It seemed silly to imagine that the life of a wild mouse might sustain a tormented one. But, what if it could? What was my relationship to this possibility? I began to think about how small generosities, especially between species, can teach us the art of repair. That would show us that generosity is quantum and can travel unimpeded across species, time and geography. It would mean that tiny gestures accumulate and may have momentum.
I know this to be true of the dead: I have seen how honoring can re-home lost souls and bring peace to a community. It seems we are being asked to imagine that kindness in the garden can somehow redress cruelty elsewhere.
The Bushmen - among others, say we strengthen the cord of connection through recognition. And they say something else as well - something even more important: that making ropes with all species in creation is what it means to be a Bushman. Let’s make the leap: this is what it means to be human.
In the US alone, more than 110 million mice and rats per year are killed in laboratories. During their short lives, they are forced to endure medical and psychological experiments; surgeries, amputations and mutilation without anesthetics; implantation with cancerous tumors and illnesses; and saturation with toxic chemicals. For our part, we must live with the knowledge that modern medicine is dependent on the torture of animals. I close my eyes and sense that the free mice enjoying this small patch of strawberries somehow bring solace to their distant cousins in laboratory cages.
I find myself in a story that lives in me always. It’s from Jane Goodall’s book, Visions of Caliban: On Chimpanzees and People. In it, she recounts visiting a laboratory that used chimpanzees for medical experiments. Seeing their condition, knowing their intelligence and their torment, she wept. One of the chimps reached his fingers through the bars of the cage to wipe away her tears.
As I imagine that the pleasure of the garden mice somehow reaches the mice who are caged, my heart softens. For a moment, instead of enmity, I feel love, unimpeded by species or circumstance. I realize that the strawberries and the mice, the soil and the stars, have recruited me and I am honored to participate. For a human who has forgotten what it truly means to be kin, that seems like a good place to start.
