
This afternoon, I worked from my kitchen table, facing the deck and the deep woods beyond—wind chimes tinkling, birds flitting between feeders. Midway through my day, a small juvenile red-tailed squirrel appeared.
Cute, I thought.
Then she leapt onto our high-top table and, after a few comical failures, managed to fling herself onto the bird feeder. I moved the table, thinking I had outsmarted her by cutting off her runway.
That worked—for about a minute.
I watched, half amused and half amazed, as she attempted to scale the side of the house—smooth siding, slippery windows, impossible angles.Surely she’d give up.
But not this determined little creature.
After multiple failed attempts, she devised an ingenious route: scaling the house, leaping to a wind chime, inching along the outdoor light wire, and shimmying down the chain to the feeder.
I admired her determination and creativity. But I also knewI had purchased a squirrel-proof feeder—the kind that closes off the seed supply when something heavier than a bird lands on it. So despite her daring high-wire act, her persistence yielded no reward.
And still, she returned. Again and again. Relentlessly.
As I watched, admiration turned to reflection. How often have I been that squirrel? Working tirelessly toward a goal—overcoming obstacles, innovating new approaches, taking risks, trying again and again until exhaustion sets in—only to find the result hollow, the door locked, or the reward not worth the effort?
When does persistence become pig-headedness? When does grit become futility?
I could count many such times. But also, many when persistence did pay off—when I pushed through, prevailed, and felt proud of my tenacity. Those moments of triumph were hard-won, and the struggle made the success all the sweeter.
Still, I wonder:
How do we discern which goals are worth that level of effort? How do we know whether the feeder is full—or sealed shut?
As I pondered this, I stepped outside to shoo my little red-tailed friend back toward the woods. There, the ground was covered with freshly fallen acorns—easy pickings and abundant food for any squirrel wise enough to notice.
Yet she had spent her entire afternoon chasing the promise of a few sunflower seeds.
Once again, I saw the parallel. How often do I overlook the abundance around me because I’m fixated on something just out of reach? How often do I assume that only the hard path leads to what I want—when ease might be waiting nearby?
As the squirrel darted away, the birds returned to the feeder—wrens, cardinals, finches, and a titmouse or two—lightly perching, feeding freely, as designed.
And I wondered:
What if life could be like that? What if what I seek is already in front of me—available, effortless, and meant to flow rather than be forced?
Signs You’re Being Pig-Headed:
Signs You Should Persist:
Perhaps That’s the Lesson From My Tenacious Little Teacher:
To persist, yes—but not to push blindly.
To trust that sometimes, ease is a sign we’re aligned.
And that the seeds meant for us will not require a squirrel’s acrobatics to reach.
Reflection Questions:
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