Today I walked through the woods along Otter Creek, and I saw something I’ve never seen before: a white squirrel. I’ve seen billions of squirrels, but I’ve never spotted one that looked like this. In fact, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first. I moved in for a closer look and a photo. Having recently seen a rare white bison, I figured I must have stumbled through the wardrobe and entered Narnia.

Back at home, I did some research and determined that it’s most likely a white morph of the Eastern grey squirrel. According to the White and Albino Squirrel Research Initiative, these squirrels are “very, very rare.”

Eastern grey squirrel - white morph / White squirrel

I posted the photo on my Facebook page, along with a note about the uncommonness of these cuties. My friend Lori commented that white squirrels aren’t all that rare, as she has seen them frequently. I shared the link to the research initiative, which includes a map that indicates where white squirrels have been observed. Lori replied that she spends most of her time in three of the areas highlighted on the map. Apparently, Lori lives in a “white squirrel world”!

It’s a great reminder that we each come to the table with a perspective based on our own experience and knowledge. We should strive to be aware of our paradigms and stay open to alternative points of view. And we should take more walks in the woods.

Have you seen a white squirrel or other uncommon creature? Leave a reply below!

Recently I shared my photo of the rear ends of three bison. While it was an interesting perspective, it violated a rule of animal photography (well, probably two rules). I understand that it’s important to make sure the animal’s eyes (or at least one eye) can be seen.

Red-bellied woodpecker

Bird photos can be particularly tricky because of all those dang branches. I took this photo of a red-bellied woodpecker last weekend, and I definitely enjoy being able to look the bird in the eye. It seems that we make a connection that way, and I like that.

It reminds me of the Bible verse that says “not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it” (Matthew 10:29), which inspired these lyrics by Civilla D. Martin:

His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

God keeps His eye on His creation with loving care. That includes the bison and the birds. That includes you and me. When we turn our eyes toward Him, we complete that connection. I’m grateful that He makes it possible for us to connect with Him, with other people, and with animals.

This is a rare photo of bison bums. Animals are not pretentious. They are not self-conscious. They go about their business and care not what we think of them.

Lunch occupied these impressive beasts as I watched them at Irvine Park & Zoo in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, over the weekend.

You’ll notice that one is a white bison. The National Bison Association estimated that white bison occur in about one out of every 10 million births. I didn’t know this statistic when I saw the bison. If I had known at the time how rare it was, I would have paid more attention.

Too often, we don’t recognize how rare or special something (or someone) is. So, we miss out. There’s seeing something, and then there’s fully appreciating it. Nature is replete with opportunities to appreciate special and awe-inspiring experiences. Let’s not miss out.

It’s a popular belief that miracles are violations of the laws of nature. Furthermore, the belief goes, because the laws of nature can’t actually be broken, miracles aren’t real.

A campfire will go out when the fuel is burned up. However, if I throw another log on the fire, it will keep going. By doing so, am I violating a law of nature?

Laws of nature describe what nature does on its own. However, anyone can interact with nature and make it do something other than it would do on its own.

When God interacts with nature, we call it a miracle. We call it a miracle because it’s rare and because we don’t see God; we see only the effects of God’s interaction.

A miracle does not violate the laws of nature; it’s simply God interacting with nature.

“Put it on the ground!”

The woman ahead of me on the hiking trail mildly admonished her small son, who was lagging behind her. I thought the child must have picked up a worm, or doggie doo, or a bad habit. As I got closer, though, I saw that the boy was holding a huge leaf. If he held it up in front of his face, he would disappear. The child was valiant in defying his mother’s order. Brave little soldier.

The boy ambled about, unwilling to shed himself of this forest treasure — and perhaps reluctant to get within range of a parent with confiscation on her mind. I empathized with him. When I was a kid, I asked my dad to stop the car on the side of the road so I could collect giant pinecones that I spied as we drove along the highways that cut through the California mountains.

The mother repeated her instruction: “Drop the leaf, Louie.” I passed the boy and then the mother and continued along the trail. I don’t know how it all turned out, but I hope that giant leaf made it home with Louie.

Now, I admit that I don’t know the whole story. Maybe there was a good reason why the mother didn’t want the boy to keep carrying the leaf. I’m quite sure it wasn’t poison oak or cannabis, but perhaps the leaf distracted the boy and he wasn’t keeping up with the mother’s desired pace — they had things to do other than just putter around in the woods.

Undoubtedly, the child was in awe. The enormous leaf monopolized his attention. At least for this moment, it was his. He could twist it around in his little hands and marvel at its immensity and beauty. Maybe he was dreaming up what he might do with the leaf or what he could fashion it into. Perhaps he wondered what kind of tree could produce such a leaf and how big the tree could grow. Whatever his thoughts were, his actions taught me something.

Living Like Louie

As children, our instincts include awe, curiosity, imagination, and connection to nature. Too often, those instincts eventually get beaten out of us to a large degree. Many of us spend too much of our lives indoors, busy, distracted, and moving at a fast pace.

I admire Louie. He reminded me to be childlike, embracing traits that are vital to thoughtful living: awe, curiosity, imagination, and connection to nature. I choose to join Louie by getting outside more, slowing my pace, and finding things that render me awestruck and make my imagination run wild.

I’ll hold on to that leaf.

Tiny frog unseen
until leaping
from the bright leaf

I enjoy the challenge of haiku. Reading it and writing it. Haiku in English, that is. I’m as equipped to write authentic Japanese haiku as I am to write actuarial valuation reports. I don’t even know what I just said. Still, the demands of English haiku make it a beautiful process and product.

Sunlight becomes
momentary diamonds
on the water

SYLLABLES • That sensational syllabic structure that made haiku famous! Three lines of up to 17 syllables (typically 10 to 14). If you demand nothing else of your haiku, you’re missing out.

SEASON • The kigo takes the poem to another level. A kigo is a season word. It’s meant to refer — subtly — to a season of the year. Haiku poets draw the majority of kigo from the natural world.

CUT • Ready for the next level of challenge and beauty and Japanese vocabulary? The third element of haiku is a cut (kire) — indicated by a real or a verbal punctuation mark. This cut compares two images or ideas implicitly. The essence of haiku is ‘cutting’ (kiru). One way to do this is to juxtapose two images or ideas with a kireji (‘cutting word’) between them.

Young rabbit
Sanctuary
The edge of the wood

A handful of syllables. A subtle reference to season. A juxtaposition of images or ideas.

One of the many aspects of haiku I enjoy is its simplicity. It doesn’t try to do and be everything. It typically captures a fleeting moment in time. Haiku shuns excess like a hermit shuns Walmart on weekends.

“The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.” (Matsuo Bashō)

I appreciate haiku for what it doesn’t do. It shows, but it doesn’t tell. It hints, but it doesn’t expose. It suggests, but it doesn’t explain.

Almost endless blue
cut in two
by shifting white sails