Letting the Ache Be Sacred
After dinner, I stepped out into the night to toss a bit of organics into the compost. That’s when I heard an urgent, aching cry from the woods. A sound so raw and tender, it could only be a newborn fawn in distress. It pierced me. It was dark. I couldn’t see anything. And so, to scramble through the brush to help was ridiculous to consider. Even if I tried to bushwhack through the thick underbrush to find the baby deer, what then? What could I possibly do? I couldn’t bear the sound—what felt like suffering—and I was powerless to make it
