To the Iguana I Failed to Save
There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest. — Eli Weisel, Night.
“They are invasive animals,” they accused, in front of the lights, dripping from suburban roof eves, like raindrops, shimmering in the crepuscule of the falling day. Only a week until the secular commemoration of the birth of their savior, red ribbons on mailboxes, cars from out of town guests, parked cross wide on driveways. The energy of the season palpable in the tepid air, with a chilly interlude brushing the tropics as if on loan for the festivities. One stood with his weapon, the most available sharp edge, a garden shovel, and a pole to drive a deeper stake as if his fear alone was not enough to do the trick. Another leaping from his oversized SUV, leaving the mammoth parked in the road, his middle school aged child in the passenger side. Descending from the car, wasting no time to park, to lend his helping hand, a good Samaritan, neighborly support. As if one lost second might solve their problem, allowing the accused to escape, to slither back into some contrived underworld that was never calling their attention. The one standing over, already rose his sword, a shovel to his back, just below the neck, the blood oozing down his ancient scales.
I can still see his face, looking at me, his only hope in this crucifixion where there would be no ascension, no one to be saved, and no one who cared to bear witness. A sense of confusion that was present in us both as the time was rolling too fast and too slow. My protestations either not loud enough or in vain as the tears rolled down and I stood by and watched what had already seemed like a fait accompli, take its course.
I was torn between stopping it and allowing the suffering to end, choosing the latter as they pressed the metal to his neck. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Should I have shouted, “Where is your Christ consciousness?” What good would have it done, as if I have any power to raise the awareness of the sleeping? But, should have I?
What is our voice when all appearances are that it is unheard? What awareness do we bring in a vacuum? There we stood, a crowd of five, Angel Number 5, related to personal freedom and independence, individualism, adaptability, major life changes, and life lessons learned through experience. The numeric symbol of motivation and determination, adventure, courage, imagination, and making positive choices. Two of these auspicious number, with their might thundering down on the object of their fear, their disappointment, their dreams unrealized. One, staring in the face of the lamb, my embarrassment and terror holding me apart from this creature, this present day embodiment of pre history. The other, a boy, sitting behind windshield glass, still, expressionless as his father joined in, a moment in time, one that called for compassion, the very reason for the blinking lights. My own young adult son, asking me not to act. I could feel his shame watching his mother, the odd man out. His certainty in the wrongness of the day tempered by his reluctance to interfere. Him, watching as his mother cried out, standing still as if in support but really just a silent, shadowy presence. “Mom, do not get involved,” he beckoned. The insecurity of youth, demanding acceptance, born into a world of immediacy, exhibitionism, and monetizing fleeting intangibility.
“You do not do this to animals,” I repeated, and repeated, cries coming from my lower self, the attachment to life, and fear of death. My cries carrying up through an echoless sky, the words dropping like empty cans to the pavement. Remnants, cast aside to be kicked away and rust in the abyss. And then the moment I turned my head. Allowing it to end, watching as they pressed deeper while I made the decision to turn. A moment that would reside in me, imprinted now like all other memories, creating an impression I would have to work to wipe away. An ephemeral moment of decision, a battlefield of four, me leaving my brother in arm to accept a burden that was not his.
I want to imagine him whole. I want to imagine him re emerged as the pure beautiful energy that embodied this living, breathing, shape shifter. The symbol of acute awareness, deep contemplation and change. A fragility in his tail, the ultimate strength. A fracture plane, where the muscles cause the tail to fall off along the line of weakness. A defense mechanism against his predators to leave his balance point behind in favor of survival. In that moment, I was his weakness. I was the link in the chain that bound us that failed to hold steady. But never again.
I want to imagine him with rainbow fire rising above his prehistoric shoulders, lifting up onto his legs and scurrying into a glowing sunset. To see him disappear in the mist of heavenly dew rising from underneath his trampling feet. I want to see him re emerge with a force of light that can overcome the darkest night, and I want him to carry me with him.
