The Squirrel

While waiting for the schoolbus this morning, my daughter and I spied a couple of squirrels in a tree. One ran down a limb and deftly jumped to the other tree, snagging a tiny twig, and continuing on as though it hadn't risked it's life in that leap.

I nudged my daughter and said, "Here comes the other one". The other squirrel hopped along the limb gracefully but stopped to break off a twig. It then turned around and carried the twig back up the tree to a crook in the trunk. It tried to weave the twig into the chaotic mass that was already there but only succeeded in causing a handful to rain down to the ground. Half of it's work was now in a heap at the base of the tree. The squirrel hopped off a few feet, paused to scratch the back of it's arm, and then began worrying another twig.

I wondered if the squirrel felt any frustration when the nest collapsed. It certainly didn't wallow in it's failure. It simply got back to work. I waved to my daughter as her bus pulled out of sight down the block and walked back home thinking about the squirrel. Why couldn't I just let the twigs fall and get back to work? Why does everything need to be perfect and why do I take it so personally when I fail? A simple tile job takes two years because I'm afraid I may have made a mistake? My paintings remain unfinished because I'm afraid I'll ruin them? My website is a hopeless jumble of links that don't work, mismatched colours, and dreary content...

I just need to sit back, scratch a bit, and then get on with it. Let the twigs fall where they may!