Witness

A doe and her twins browsed at the edge of our clearing this morning. I saw them from the east-facing windows as I took my first sips of coffee and my just-checking circuit around the household main floor. I sat down to quilt a few minutes later and there I again faced the three of them, now framed in the south windows by the table.

The youngsters still wear their polka-dot capes, though their lower flanks show the smooth, redish-brown coloration of summer, the same coat color that their mama wears. My head says, "Overpopulation." My emotional, felt response says, "Aaaawhhhhh." My quilting hand stills for a few minutes as I just watch.

The fawns nibbled at vegetation, ground and tree, as did Mama. She seemed less hungry. Well, of course. It's surely been my experience of mothering that kids are always hungry when they're growing. She seemed more watchful, as well, and aware of movement indoors.

The fawns' legs showed prancing strength as they occasionally bounced about with what seemed like an illustration of the simple joy of being alive. The distances among the three of them varied, yet they came together frequently, nuzzling, the little ones touching side-by-side, one baby once turning to mama almost as if to nurse and receiving a few tongue-licks on the head and neck.

I remembered the tiny, spotted bag of fur and small bones I saw on one of the upper meadow trails this summer, a still-born or early-dead fawn. I thought of the many times I've walked past deer carcases dumped along Deer Creek. I imagined the pleasures of lovely venison stew I've eaten at frugal hunters' tables, and the times I did not have enough food.

Today I witnessed this intimate, homely, family scene among the deer. What shall I do with my witness? How does my presence to that moment translate to my presence in each coming moment? What shall any of us ever do with our honest, daily, ordinary, complex witness?