Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.
Dreams of the Borderland
Opportunity
I am opening the front door to go get the mail, when I encounter the stray cat. The cat stands on
the porch quite close to the screen door, nearly touching it with its nose. I look down at it through
the screen, and it glances up at me once or twice, and returns to watching the door's bottom edge
intently. All I see for a few long minutes is the top of its head, its back, its tail, straight up. It is
calico, white with brown and black streaks and it looks healthy, if a little thin. "May I help you?" I
ask. This cat is not interested in idle conversation. It responds huskily after a moment without
lifting its head, "I am watching the door. It may open." I go get some leftover food from the
refrigerator and step
out onto the porch,
closing the door
behind me, and still
the cat watches the
door. I place the
leftover chicken in the
grass. The cat looks
over at me briefly and
says, "Thanks, I
missed it just then, so
I'll stay right here
because the door may
open again," and
continues to stare at
the door. It isn't until I
wave the chicken
directly under its nose
that it understands that I offer something of value, and it can be tempted away from the door.
"Oh. Mmmm," it says, as it begins to eat. The cat is finally getting some food, and I go about my
business.
I realize that in the past I have often ignored people who could help me. There have always been
people in the world who could and would have guided me or acted on my behalf if I had only
asked. While I focused on my expectations, all sorts of unanticipated opportunities came and
went in the form of potential friends and willing partners. I resolve to think about seeking more
help from people directly, and spending less energy on happenstance.
We are taking a large old yew tree down because it is no longer green and beautiful and its has
ensnared the power lines. We carefully cut one tall spire after another until there is nothing left
to entangle the wire when we cut the trunk. We bring it down with a few loud complaints of the
chainsaw and a thud. A brown ball rolls out of the remaining branches as the trunk falls. I pick it
up. It is surprisingly dense, perfectly symmetrical, about a foot in diameter. It is made of small
woven twigs. I marvel at its exceedingly fine construction until I realize that it is broken, and I
hear little cries from inside. I gently pull the two halves apart. There are two small baby squirrels
inside, eyes closed, nearly naked, mewing, laying together like yin and yang. The walls of the
nest are over two inches thick. I feel immensely honored to have seen these little babies, but I am
also very sorry that we have disturbed their intimate home. I am deeply concerned about keeping
them warm and about what their mother will think. I place the two halves of the nest back
together as best I can and place it deep in the lower branches of a nearby holly tree.
We are still cutting up the rest of the tree when I see the mother come to investigate the loss of
her home. She frantically raises up on her back legs to survey the disaster and smell the air. The
tree is gone, and with it her little ones. She recovers quickly, though. It only takes a minute for
her to find them, and soon I see her carefully rolling and tucking one of them up into a little
package that she carries by mouth to a new secret location.
I would not have created this situation on purpose for all the world. Nevertheless, I feel happy to
have done my part to repair it, and privileged indeed to have witnessed the private life of these
little beings. Some months later I realize that the mother must have reassessed the holly tree as a
hiding place. There is now a nest in its uppermost branches, and all the sharply pointed holly
leaves have been stripped from the tree top, nipped away where she climbs down from the
telephone pole nearby.
