While walking my dog Jude the other day, I saw a duck. Just one.
That might not sound unusual, and to see a duck usually isn’t. But this one was different. This was a baby.
I’ve seen plenty of baby ducks. They nest near the drainage canal across the street from our condo. The canal smells when the tide is out, a little like garbage that’s baked in the sun followed by a whiff of sewage.
Why the ducks have chosen to make this their home I don’t know. Maybe they can’t smell, but whatever the reason, we have lots and lots of ducks around. Which means we often have lots of fuzzy yellow and brown baby ducklings. They are adorable. The kind of adorable that you just can’t argue with. I don’t know anyone who could look at them waddling on their too-big black feet and not smile.
When I’ve seen these babies before, they’ve been in a group. A sort of safety-in-numbers type thing. The brown and white mother is usually hovering near by, ready to squawk if you get too close.
I’ve seen gaggles of five, seven, even nine. And that’s the thing. When they are little, they are always together.
This one was alone.
All alone.
He was on the other side of the street, a far waddle from the safety of the canal. He looked lost and confused, standing on spikes of grass with a drooping banana leaf over his head. I wanted to help him. I wanted to scoop him up and take him home, but I didn’t. I knew he must be there for a reason. Or maybe I hoped he was. That his aloneness had a purpose. That it was part of some greater plan.
Because you see, I often feel like that baby duck: Lost.
And when I’m lost, I want there to be purpose.
I want it to be for something better — something that I can’t see yet because I’m staring at the thick blades of Bermuda grass instead of up in at the huge sky above me.
Jessica Ivaska 