Back to nature

If I had one wish, it would probably be that wild animals were a little less afraid of us.
Not tame. Not pets. Just less convinced that every human they meet is a potential threat.
I've noticed over the years that animals seem to judge people individually. They don't completely lose their caution, but they do appear to make decisions about who is worth worrying about.
One of the most noticeable examples happened when I spent a few months at a religious retreat. Very early on I noticed the birds behaved differently there. They weren't sitting on people's shoulders or anything like that, but they carried on their daily lives much closer to the residents than in the world I had come from.
It struck me that the birds had learned.
Since then I've had a few encounters that have stayed with me.
During one particularly hot summer, a seagull waddled sleepily over to me, heatstroke most obvious if not understood, it was looking for water. I can't prove that's what it wanted, but that's certainly what it felt like at the time. It wasn't begging for food. It wasn't being aggressive. It simply approached and seemed far more comfortable than most gulls I've encountered.
The one that really stays with me, though, was a fox family.
Two adults and two cubs.
I found myself surprisingly close to them one day not 10 feet away for no less than half a minute but how long that half a minute felt, not close enough to touch, even if I had wanted to. There was no sense of ownership over the moment. It wasn't mine to take. 
What struck me was what happened next.
They didn't bolt.
They didn't panic.
They simply got up and walked away, first the female with her cubs while the male sat for a little longer
Not running. Not startled.
Just moving on.
That small difference meant a lot to me.
I've seen frightened animals before. This wasn't that.
It felt more like they had reached a decision.
"That's close enough. We'll be over there instead."
Over the years I've learnt that there is a name for this sort of thing: habituation. Not taming. Not friendship. Simply a gradual recognition that a particular human doesn't pose a threat.
Looking back, I've probably spent much of my life moving between two worlds.
The human world has always been my home, but I've been fortunate enough to be granted occasional visitor status in the animal one.
The trouble is that when you're busy with work, responsibilities, commitments and the general noise of human life, those visits can be brief. You notice a bird, watch a fox, share a moment with some creature going about its business, and then you're pulled back into schedules, plans and obligations.
The older I get, the more I realise how fortunate I am to have the time to notice these things. I also realised that my affinity with animals went all the way back through my childhood though without the reality of the moment hitting home.
Anne Frank once wrote about finding comfort in nature and looking for it whenever she could. Even in circumstances far more difficult than most of us will ever experience, she recognised something valuable there.
I think I understand that far better now than I did when I was younger.
These days I can spend longer watching, listening and simply being present.
Not every encounter is remarkable. Most aren't.
But every so often a bird chooses to stay instead of fly away. A fox decides you are not worth running from. A wild creature or a feral cat, carries on with its life while allowing you a small glimpse into its world.
Those moments are impossible to force and impossible to buy.
They are gifts.
Perhaps that's why they stay in the memory for so long.
I've come to believe that wild animals do not see "humans" any more than we see "animals".
They see individuals.
And every now and then, if you're quiet enough, patient enough and predictable enough, one of them decides you're safe.
For a few minutes, you're allowed to share the same piece of the world.
For me, that remains one of life's greatest privileges.

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