Patricia and the beetle
by Patricia | 3.16.09November 2008, I sat in Sacrament Service between my two ambulatory children, daughter aged eleven years, son aged eighteen. As the program moved into the blessing and passing of the Sacrament, my mind began its shift from observation to meditation.
Movement atop the empty pew just ahead drew my eye. A beetle about a quarter of an inch long followed the ridgeline of the pew’s wooden back, rear end waggling as its six legs paddled its body along. It had a dark gray carapace and a rounded, yellowish head with black eyespots. Two short antennae sifted the air questioningly.
Other than the assortment of wasps and hornets that become trapped in chapels on high summer days, I’ve witnessed few non-human creatures attend Sacrament Service. The presence of a beetle in church snagged my attention. The organ began playing its ponderous introduction to the Sacrament hymn.
*I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me,
Confused at the grace that so fully he proffers me.
At the moment, the pew the beetle traversed stood unoccupied. Should that change, people taking their seats could crush the bug. Or, finding it, small children might raise a ruckus.
I tremble to know that for me he was crucified,
That for me, a sinner, he suffered, he bled and died.
Or the beetle could decide to fly and land in someone’s hair or on their clothes—perhaps how it found its way into the chapel in the first place—and be carried deeper into the bowels of the building, where one way or another it faced probable death.
Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me
Enough to die for me!
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
It might by this twist, that turn find its way safely out of the chapel, whose doors open directly onto the outside world and freedom.
I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine.
And what kind of beetle was it?
That he should extend his great love unto such as I …
Did its presence signal a threat to the local agricultural surround or native flora? Like the Eurasian ring-necked doves I’ve witnessed spread rapidly during the few years I’ve lived in southern Utah, might it be a member of a non-native, invasive species? Ought it to die?
Sufficient to own, to redeem, and to justify.
At that last question, a story I’d read recently jumped to mind: **Garuda and the Bird.
In Hindu and Buddhist mythology, Garuda is a winged bird-like creature often represented as part human in body. A Hindu story tells how in his station as guardian of Lord Shiva, Garuda sat perched on the gate of Shiva’s palace at the peak of holy Mount Kailash.
There Garuda’s watchful eye fell on movement, a small bird flitting around the palace entrance. It took up a perch on the entrance’s crowning arch. A sensitive being, the Garuda filled with wonder at the sight of the delicate, comely bird poised upon the arch of Shiva’s imposing temple. He said, “How marvelous is this creation! The one who has created these lofty mountains has also made this tiny bird—both seeming equally wonderful.”
As Garuda said this, Yama, the lord of death, came riding on his buffalo to visit Shiva. Garuda saw Yama’s gaze fall briefly upon the bird. The lord of death’s eyes showed a quizzical expression, but he did not stop. He passed beneath the bird through the entrance into Shiva’s palace.
A protector by nature, Garuda’s heart filled with pity for the bird, for he knew that Lord Yama’s gaze does not rove arbitrarily. Even a glance from him portends death. The bird, Garuda knew, was going to die.
Yet he swept down and, cradling the bird in his talons, carried it from the palace so when Yama emerged he would not find it there. He flew with the bird a thousand miles to a deep forest and set it, as the story says, on a rock next to a fast-flowing stream. Then he returned to his post at Shiva’s gate.
Emerging from his meeting with Shiva, Yama nodded greeting to Garuda. Garuda said to him, “Just before you went inside the palace, I saw you notice a tiny bird. The sight of it seemed to surprise you. May I know why?”
Yama said, “When my eyes fell upon the bird, I saw it would soon find its death in the jaws of a python. But pythons live in the deep forest a thousand miles away, not here high up on Mount Kailash. Yet here the bird was, so I felt briefly puzzled.”
Yama went on his way, and Garuda felt once more consumed with wonder, this time at the inevitability of karma, the principle of action and reaction that directs all life.
Oh it is wonderful that he should care for me
Enough to die for me!
Oh it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
karma: n. 1. The whole effect of a person’s actions in one of the successive realms of life as it determines his or her fate in the next. 2. Fate.
Some hold the word “karma” synonymous with the word “fate,” the cosmic power supposed to be the source of inevitable outcomes. In I and Thou, Martin Buber says that fate is the feverish and stifling condition of the person fixed upon using the world.
Unlike Garuda, I didn’t wonder at clever karma mechanics. I wondered how, in such a belief system, does one avoid the tyranny of indecision?
I think of his hands pieced and bleeding to pay the debt.
Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?
The beetle waddled in a straight line, following without wavering the route the back of the pew opened to it, antennae stroking the air. It was nearing the farthermost range of my reach. I watched it moodily.
If I change the bug’s course, I change the course of its life.
If I don’t change the bug’s course, I don’t change the course of its life (or … do I?).
Or:
Change the bug’s course; it won’t change the course of its life.
And what about my life, the life of an agent engaged with this other’s life? What might change for me?
No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet.
Should I do anything?
Oh it is wonderful that he should care for me
Enough to die for me!
Life or death? Both? In seconds the beetle would be beyond reach.
Oh it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
Leaning across my daughter, I swept the beetle with my right hand into my left. It landed on its back on my palm. At the shock, it folded its legs against its body and laid its antennae along the sides of its head and hard exoskeleton, making less vulnerable these delicate parts, and there on my warm it skin struck a death pose. I wasn’t fooled. As the Sacrament prayers began, I closed my fist over the bug, holding it in the grip of my decision.
My children had been watching the drama quietly. I’d felt them awaiting not only my choice regarding the beetle but also my decision concerning what roles they’d play in how the matter would unfold.
A family with small children arrived and sat in the pew from which I had just removed the bug.
O God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this bread to the souls of all who partake of it, that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.
“Amen.”
As the deacons passed the sacrament, I felt the hand holding the bug begin to sweat and wondered how the heat, the electrolytic and possible acidic secretions—as well as, maybe, the traces of the pain-killer I took before leaving for church that afternoon—might affect the beetle. When the Sacrament bread arrived at our row, I partook of it with my right hand then passed it with my right, holding the beetle softly in my left.
Oh God, the Eternal Father, we ask thee in the name of thy Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this water to the souls of all those who drink of it, that they may do it in remembrance of the blood of thy Son, which was shed for them; that they may witness unto thee, O God, the Eternal Father, that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.
“Amen.”
I opened my hand. The beetle had righted itself and stood in the center of my palm, antennae waving cautiously. It looked to be feeling well enough, if disturbed and uncertain. I closed my hand again.
My son—my oldest—sat on the aisle. When the passing of the Sacrament ended and the quiet of ceremony turned to the reshuffling of bodies that typically follows, I took my son’s left hand in my right and passed the beetle off him. “Take it outside well past the doors and release it near the trees,” I whispered. He nodded and left immediately with the smattering of folks who had come to take the Sacrament and now exited the chapel.
Life or death? Both?
And what of my life, now that I’ve done this thing? What of my children, who took part?
Oh it is wonderful, wonderful to me!
*Yes, this is the sacrament hymn that played that day.
**Yes, this story did leap to mind as I pondered the beetle’s circumstances during the blessing and passing of the sacrament.
March 17th, 2009 at 12:06 pm
Field notes from the City:
I watched part of Terminator 2 last night…
I live in the San Fernando Valley. It holds about a million people now. Not much empty space anymore. It wasn’t always this way. At one time it was a Savanna Woodland. Oak trees and grass. Lots of open area. We still have cities of Sherman Oaks, Encino (the oaks), 1000 Oaks, Tarzana (where that filmed Tarzan.
From my backyard, I can look over my fence and see Bull Creek..it is still running. At one time, an important water resource for the Indians, Spanish and animals. It flows into the LA river. In my youth, it supplied little backwaters for Nature fun. Barry Lopez (never knew him), and I are the same age and we both worked these areas as boys.
But Bull Creek is not the same. It is now a cement canyon (1950s). The bottom is flat (so Army trucks could use it if the ‘big bomb’ came).
If you see Terminator 2, you will see Bull Creek. It’s where the big black tow truck chases the motorcycles. This is now how we do predator and prey on Bull Creek.
March 18th, 2009 at 10:22 pm
IF I see Terminator 2 (it’s easier to avoid all the Terminators, since we gave up satellite service a few months back), I’ll be sure to look for the tow truck in pursuit of motorcycle scene and watch for Bull Creek.
Some interesting trivia there, Bob. Especially the part about Bull Creek having a flat, cement bottom to facilitate the movement of military vehicles.
March 19th, 2009 at 9:18 am
http://www.yourprops.com/norm-45074d753d60c-Terminator+2:+Judgment+Day+(1991).jpeg
Photo of Bull Creek
March 19th, 2009 at 10:11 am
Your idea of photosharing is, um, unique.
But I’ll admit that seeing the stonefaced Gubernator pointing one of his gigantic guns at some no doubt unimaginable horror while sitting on the back of a motorcycle in the concrete channel of Bull Creek is … well, precious isn’t quite the word. Symptomatic might work.
You wouldn’t happen to have anything to say about the original post here, would you, Bob? Or have you simply blasted it to kingdom come?
March 19th, 2009 at 2:37 pm
“…don’t perceive any of it as being directly addressed to you” (Patricia of an earlier post).
You yet again are right. How was I going to match your tale of beauty of the beetle or cockroach in church?
I guess I could have told you my now ugly Bull Creek does, once a year, still stands in glory! It’s during the migration of the Monarch Butterfly to Monterrey. For reasons unknown to me, millions(?) of the butterflies choose to fly North using only Bull Creek as they pass though my valley. For about two days, it’s an endless stream of butterflies.
Then it’s back to it’s usual Nature: the crow, the opossum, and mosquito. But even the mosquito’s time is ending….West Nile fear.
March 19th, 2009 at 7:01 pm
Bob, as the Comments Policy advises, please keep your comments on topic. Clearly, this post isn’t about predator v. prey or the Terminator series. And while your notes on the monarch butterfly migration along Bull Creek are engaging and would work nicely on a Field Notes post, they’re off topic on this post. This isn’t a Field Notes post and your remarks hijack it.
I’m sure somewhere out in the Web you can find a forum or fora devoted to the high drama of predator v. prey as well as whole flaming forests exalting the Terminator series. This isn’t the place.
Got anything to say that directly addresses the content of this post? You’re welcome to say it. If you feel a post isn’t addressed to you, skip it!
March 20th, 2009 at 5:35 pm
My grandpa’s house bordered the creek in Canoga Park. We used to catch crawdads with pieces of our bologna sandwich. Never could figure why we caught them, we didn’t use them for anything but to feed grandpa’s ducks. Oh, yeah, them duckies would gobble up just about anything they could swallow. Greedy birds.
Patricia’s tale about the beetle in church calls to mind two fond memories.
First, I recall Mark Twain’s classic yarn about the “pinch bug” (apparantly Phyllophaga or some other come Coleoptera) and the unfortunate poodle in Tom Sawyer’s adventures.
Our dear Patricia is not so bold as to interrupt church services. As unfortunate as that might prove, I suppose, in the minds of some. I cannot recall attending too many meetings I thought were too SHORT.
Second, it brings to a mass migration I once witnessed, millions and millions of yellow sulfurs (Colias phicomone) streaming past, filling the air to the far horizon, for miles and miles. It lasted for two days.
If I stood still for a minute, hundreds would alight on my arms and head and shoulders, trembling with vibrant life. Thier wings would continue fanning as if garnering new energy, impatient to rejoin the streaming migratory mass.
I do not know where they were headed, or from whence they came. All I remember is the marvel and open-mouthed astonishment.
March 21st, 2009 at 8:17 am
Jim,
I am timid about interrupting the Sacrament only. Everything else is fair game.
I do not know where they were headed, or from whence they came. All I remember is the marvel and open-mouthed astonishment.
I had an experience like this one fishing on the Allegheny River in northwestern PA. I stood thigh deep in the Allegheny’s murky current and a mayfly hatch commenced. Hundreds of these pale, fairy-like insects trailing their larval shells landed on me, so delicate that if I turned my head the movement crushed mayflies that found their ways inside my collar. I stood still, afraid to move, waiting for them to take to the air again. Of course, fishing was moot from the moment the hatch began so I had nothing better to do than to stand still while the currents streamed around me anyway.
These moments when the distance between us and even the smallest of creatures closes, when we realize we’re involved with them and they with us in whatever way unfolds, these come as revelations. That I take these instances so seriously might come off as silly, but caring for my special needs daughter for nearly 17 years has tuned my attention to the significance of small details and seemingly minor events.
And as the Fixx said, “But then, one thing leads to another.”
March 21st, 2009 at 10:37 am
The hatch of the Dobsonfly (Corydalus cornutus) is well marked by fishermen. Hellgrammites, the semi-aquatic larval stage of this species is prized by anglers for its great luring power, especially to bass. It rather superficially resembles a large centipede.
In North Carolina I went to several Friday night at the Mount Zion Baptist Church fish fries that were hosted on bass caught with hellgrammites and crawdad entrails. The fish and fries were good. The black woman singing gospel music was even better.
March 21st, 2009 at 10:46 am
Hellgrammites. Yes, I know them well, and for the reasons you mention. Great, black, multi-legged, pincered things that live in the dark beneath creekside rocks. I’ve also been buzzed by them in their dragon form.
Now a hellgrammite—that would be something to see in church!
March 21st, 2009 at 12:37 pm
Ruth can sing better than any black soprano I ever heard, but to be honest I’ve never had the opportunity to compare singing among the Cypress and Tupelo and Sweet Gum trees down in some misty bayou where she competes with winos and bawling babies. You have to grind out low notes that vibrate the gut, and timbre that shakes the graveyard, and highest highs with a shrill that hurts old ladies bridgework.
March 21st, 2009 at 7:22 pm
Hebrews enjoins us to hospitality because, it says, some have entertained angels unawares.
Perhaps Yama sitting in the pew behind you wondered to see the beetle in Church, when it was scheduled to die in the beak of a starling before the High Council speaker finished his sermon that day?
Even if it was so, we get only to choose and act, not the fruits of our actions. Karma is, after all, action. Krishna too teaches that the rain falls on the just and the unjust.
A single act of compassion changes the cosmos irrevocably, even if one instant later, the bird’s beak comes down.
March 22nd, 2009 at 7:50 am
Even if it was so, we get only to choose and act, not the fruits of our actions. Karma is, after all, action. Krishna too teaches that the rain falls on the just and the unjust.
Exactly this reasoning inspired my cutting off the original ending to this essay, letting the story go with the questions.
Here’s how it went:
But in the not-end, even that seemed too prescriptive.
March 22nd, 2009 at 12:40 pm
Imagining the act and acting and apprehending the act and imagining again.
March 22nd, 2009 at 2:56 pm
Now that I remember, I also had a couple lines in there about how we tend to measure effect by only the narrowest scope of outcome. What happens to the beetle is merely a part of it. This event will continue to unfold in my life and in the lives of my children, who participated in it.
March 22nd, 2009 at 6:50 pm
Your comment about scope resonates with me. While the focus of your beetling compassion may have been the creature on the pew back, it could widen to reach the distress of the family who sat on that pew a moment before you removed the bug, to the bird that cocked its head and pecked at the critter, to — as you note — the thoughts that such an event will engender ten years from now in the minds of your children.
And, of course, in you.
March 23rd, 2009 at 7:42 am
greenfrog, this a.m. I found two of your comments, trapped, one in spam and one in moderation. Just set them free. Sorry it took so long for me to notice!
As I have persisted in being a writer, a person who takes her stance in deeds of word, I’ve learned something similar about scope—that what others make of those words I put out there I might never know.
I suppose I could say that a kind of faith lives at the heart of these actions, a faith in acting and a faith in the acts of others. I know some would consider that second risky, but I think that, in the not-end, it’s the only way to go.
March 23rd, 2009 at 7:55 am
Jim,
I just found your wonderful comment about Ruth’s being able to sing caught in spam. (Note to self: check spam and moderation queue frequently.)
I don’t know about the Cypress and Tupelo trees, but I’ve spent many hours in sweet gum trees myself, and they can really rock. The scent of their star-shaped leaves, which I rubbed over my arms and face, is a powerful part of my memories of childhood in Virginia.
March 23rd, 2009 at 7:16 pm
I am, quite evidently, immoderately spammy.
March 23rd, 2009 at 9:16 pm
Oh, groan.
Yes, quite evidently.