Unseen Beauty: A Journal

The Quality of Mercy

I was coming up the stairs this morning when I saw him. It had not been a stellar morning. Hell, it hadn’t been a stellar two weeks. The end of the semester is approaching, the stress ramping upwards. And, of course, this semester has been generally located at the bottom of the toilet bowl rather than the rim. I was rushing from one place to another, my wallet clutched in my fist as I whisked around the back of the building to avoid another encounter with the pair of over eager Gideons guarding the front entrance, and there he was. Halfway up the concrete and metal staircase, huddled out of the harsh sunlight was a little green tree frog.

All in all, he wasn’t really that tiny; for his species, he was actually quite a bruiser at about two inches in length. But crunched into that dusty corner, he seemed tiny, his green skin brilliant against the rust red paint. I stopped for a moment, staring at the minuscule smidgen of life so unexpectedly thrust into my world, wonder at the pale green skin vying with instant concern over the effects of the bug spray so liberally splattered across our buildings in the noble cause of eliminating the indoor-mobile cockroach population.

As visions of the dried carcasses of little froglings danced in my mind’s eye, I shoved my wallet into the waistband of my slacks, hooked my keys through a belt loop, gathered up the little amphibian, and turned back the way I had come. The cool dampness of the little creature’s skin pressed against my palm, and I peered into the dark cave of my cupped hands, marveling at the delicate pebbling of the green skin and the elaborate traceries of rust red across the brilliant hue. Oblivious to the certain accusations of insanity from my co-workers and the administration, I explained to the little frog that his location on the stairs was not his wisest choice, and that I was transporting him to safer – and leafier – climes.

Depositing the green and red miracle under the shelter of an aloe vera planted at the base of a spreading live oak, I turned to seek out a bathroom and wash my hands, only to find myself facing one of the administrative assistants. Understandably curious, she had ventured out of her office to ask what type of creature I was relocating outside of her building. Assuring her that it was in no way a danger to her or her office, I pointed out the new resident, explaining his prior perilous location. She smiled, shrugged, and commented that he was lucky I had seen him first – someone else might have just crushed him for fun. And I shuddered.

That part of human nature ranks highest on my list of incomprehensible things. I will never understand the apparently natural desire of some creatures who label themselves as human to kill, maim, and destroy without any benefit or cause. Don’t mis-label me; I was reared in a hunting family; I ate venison for most of my childhood. I saw death and saw how ugly it was; I understood the cost of the food I was eating. It didn’t make me a vegetarian, but that intimate understanding of what the “food chain” meant, coupled with hours of trekking through the gracious woods of the Appalachians, made me love nature and love the world that crept, hopped, and ran outside my limited, straight-lined doorway in a way that nothing else could have. I respected the powerful, chaotic beauty that was nature; I mourned for the lives that were lost to sustain others. But more than that, I fell in love with the wildness.

I learned about death in those days of wanderlust, but I fell in love with life and with wonder. I watched the deer pick their way through the first snowfall; I froze with respect when I heard a rattle in waist-high grass. I sat for hours, my feet in a woodland stream, just being. I carried the intense passion I developed for the natural world with me to adulthood, and with it, I carried a hatred for those who kill for their own aggrandizement and pleasure. As a child, I wept the first time I saw a buck killed by a hunter, the carcass abandoned, bloated, rotten; the only part taken was the antlers, claimed as a trophy for some small-testicled over-egoed imbecile. I got beaten up when I lashed out in horror at Dale Frailey for smothering a turtle just to watch its mouth work. I could not comprehend how people failed to see the miracles in the habits of the creatures around them, how they felt obligated to interfere.

As an adult, I still cannot comprehend. Six or eight months ago, I was taking a break from my desk, standing outside the building, watching the wasps build their nests on the swaying fronds of the palm trees at the edge of the building. The nests were beautiful, delicate works of geometrical precision, drooping over the abyss as the wind blew the wide green fans of the leaves back and forth on their thick stems. As I was leaning against the railing, watching the busy little creatures work the malleable base into the long tubes of their nests, the security guard came through the door and asked if I was all right. I explained what I was watching, the little miracle of nature. She shrugged and commented that she would get maintenance out to spray the nests right away.

No one had been stung. No one even knew the nests were there until that moment. Why was the first reaction to kill the insects? Why would anyone have stepped on my little frog? Why do we kill when there is no offense, not even an ideological one to rationalize the act? Why kill for an artificial sense of power rather than learning and cherishing for a lingering gift of wonder?

My passion for the world around me is a vital part of who I am. I am a humanities teacher by choice because I feel a great call to beauty and to wonder; I believe in appreciating the magic that is all around us, in every breath we breathe. As a religious woman, I do not think that I have a choice in my desire to protect, preserve, and appreciate. I believe that God created this world as the first artist of infinity, and that humans have been charged with the preservation and appreciation of that artwork. To destroy without respect, without understanding anything about what we are blithely eliminating, is to spit on creativity itself. To kill in the name of divine superiority is the epitome of blasphemy; it is the equivalent of placing graffiti on the Sistine chapel ceiling in the name of Dadaism.

I hope that I never lose my passion for life, that the pain I feel knowing any innocent thing has been lost without cause will always touch me. I hope my little frog finds himself a new home, safe and far from the crushing feet of the cruel, and I hope that someday, I may find that place as well.