squirrels | The Direction of Intention

Squirrel Lore [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Posted on April 17, 2026 by davidrobinsoncreative

My dad had a special relationship with squirrels though I doubt he thought of his squirrel-connection as special. He kept a BB gun at the ready to keep the little varmints from eating the peaches from his tree. He never aimed to hit them. He’d shoot the leaves close by to scare them. Once, when his eyesight was failing, he accidentally hit a squirrel. “Did I hit him?” he asked me, horrified. The squirrel was stung but otherwise uninjured. My dad was wounded to his core. “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he repeated, misty eyed throughout the evening. I am not certain but I think that was the last time he touched his BB gun.

Our yard is alive with squirrels. Dogga chases them. He gives them a quick bark as he skids to a stop while they scurry to the safety of the pine tree. And then he prances, triumphant in his mission of yard patrol. Later, we laugh as he lounges on the deck, uninterested in the yard-antics of the squirrels.

The squirrels have easily cracked the code of every bird-feeder-squirrel-protection-mechanism on the market. They are furry little ninjas stealing birdseed like their human counterparts heist diamonds. After years of gadgets and guards and placements – and serious thoughts about finding my dad’s leaf-ready BB gun – we’re in full surrender. We now scatter birdseed on the potting bench and on the top of Barney-the-piano. We invite the furry masses. The birds and squirrels dine peacefully together. They take turns. They are well fed.

When I refresh the scatter of seed I think of my dad. His squirrel campaign gave him a sense of purpose. Protecting the peach tree from the squirrels was a worthy-and-fun retirement mission. Without their constant assault on the peaches he would have been left with nothing more meaningful than cutting the grass (note: he edged the yard on his hands and knees with handheld clippers. My brother threatened to buy him an edger but he adamantly resisted. In analogy, my brother assumed the role of a squirrel, threatening my dad’s yard aesthetic routine).

I sometimes wonder if the squirrels watch us in utter fascination. We humans need challenges to feel useful. If we don’t have challenges we invent them; we call them hobbies. It’s the reason that “conflict” is the driver of every human story. A yearning meets an obstacle (Robert Olen Butler’s definition of “story”). Yearning needs obstacle like my dad needed squirrels. And now I have a special relationship with the squirrels: I do not try to deter them. I love watching them. I love Dogga’s daily game with them. They give him purpose. I love scattering seed for them. I love that they make me smile and remember the gentle man who was my father.

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read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUIRRELS

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Filed under: Gratitude, KS Friday, Love | Tagged: artistry, bird feeder, dad, david robinson, davidrobinsoncreative.com, father, Kerri Sherwood, kerri sherwood itunes, kerrianddavid.com, kerrisherwood.com, love, purpose, relationship, Robert Olen Butller, squirrels, story, studio melange, the melange | Leave a comment »

See The Bounty [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on September 27, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

I doubt that our bird feeder experience is different than most people. The chipmunks and the squirrels get most of the bounty and the birds play clean-up.

In another life, were I to aspire to be an acrobat or gymnast, I’d study the amazing antics of chippies and squirrels. They scale the impossible pole. They leap the impossible leap. And then they fill their cheeks to bursting, kick gobs of seed to the ground, and fling themselves – fully loaded – into space and somehow catch a limb or bit of fence and escape into the great unknown. They are fearless.

The birds alight on the feeder, too, but mostly they find their fortune on the ground.

Over the summer, directly beneath the feeder, corn plants appeared. We let them grow for a while. I confess, the corn made us smile. “We have corn!” we’d giggle at the absurdity even though the origin was obvious. Apparently we are easily amused.

And then the corn plants sprouted across the yard. A stalk grew right next to Breck-the-Aspen-Tree. And then we found a few lively plants pressing through the tall grasses in the front yard. We’d unintentionally set into motion a small-sample-experiment of corn migration as carried by birds and mini-beasts.

Across many cultures, corn has long been a symbol of prosperity and representative of the cycle of life. It’s easy to understand why. The fields are magical places. In our film mythos, baseball teams of yore emerged from the corn, bringing good fortune to the family that built a field on their farm. Giver of dreams. Fulfiller of hope. Ancestors return to the corn.

In addition to the summer of the bunny and the surprise frog-named-Hope, this is the summer of corn-on-the-move. As the leaves begin to turn, as the harvest comes in, we take comfort knowing that we are surrounded by so many symbols of plenty.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CORN

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Filed under: Flawed Wednesday, Gratitude, Metaphor, Possibility, Seeing | Tagged: ancestors, artistry, bird feeder, bounty, chipmunk, corn, david robinson, davidrobinsoncreative.com, dreams, field of dreams, harvest, hope, Kerri Sherwood, kerri sherwood itunes, kerrianddavid.com, kerrisherwood.com, life cycle, magical places, plant migration, plenty, prosperity, squirrels, story, studio melange, the melange | 1 Comment »

See The Signs [on KS Friday]

Posted on April 1, 2022 by davidrobinsoncreative

Although it is not quite here, I know spring is coming. How do I know? The blinds are open on one side of the room. They are closed on the other side.

During the winter, the blinds are closed on both sides of the room. During the winter, we turn in. We close out the world. All of the energy goes to the root, beneath the soil, to recharge our lives. Hibernation. And then, one day, though it is still cold, the birds return, we wake to their song, the sun plays hide-and-seek. In the morning, well rested, we open the blinds to the east.

We’re watching the squirrels. They gather the fallen leaves in their mouths and adeptly climb the maples and oaks to high notches, deposit their load, and return to the ground to gather more. Up and down. Over and over. Preparing their nests. The birds are courting. It looks like a hearty game of chase but we know the females are dodging the insistent pesky males.

Life is returning from the deep. Preparation for Persephone’s homecoming. Restless buds appear on branches. It’s close, but not quite yet.

Not quite yet. The third covid springtime. We are not yet past it and are fidgety.

We sat in the car staring at the door to the store. “I’m so goddamn tired of putting on this mask, ” I said as I put it on. We know we’ll be among the few wearing masks as we shop. No matter. It’s not over yet, this long winter of pandemic. As much as we want it to be spring, as much as we can see the signs, it’s not here yet. Not yet. Blinds open on one side of the room. Blinds closed on the other side.