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To ease the impact of human encroachment on our wilderness, I installed bird-feeders in both the front and back yard.  Many creatures showed up to take advantage of this available smorgasbord.  One little rabbit even let me sit just a few feet away while it calmly nibbled the fresh shoots sprouting from fallen seed on the ground.

Tending my flowers one spring, I spied a pair of partridge coming out of the woods across the street.  From there to the feeder there was little or no cover to hide in, but this didn't concern the male.  Boldly, he walked through this no-bird's land like he owned the world.  His young wife made it to the pavement, hesitated, then watched as her husband settled down -- thoughtlessly -- to eat without her!  Very upset, she began to pace back and forth, plaintively peeping and crying.  Though terrified, leaving her mate and going back into the forest alone was not an option for her.  Gradually growing louder and more pitiful with each plea, her voice finally reached her husband.

Leaving his meal, the male crossed the yard to the edge of the street and began calling to his lady.  Now having his full attention, the female begged mournfully at full volume.  Making his way back over the pavement, Mr. Partridge used a quiet, gentle, but concerned voice to comfort his bride.  I had the impression he might have been explaining that to love him was to have faith in him -- to trust that his love for her was a nourishing shield that would never fail.

With her protector by her side, Mrs. Partridge walked across the road with silent dignity that belied her anxiety attack moments before.  At the feeder they dined unconcernedly together, and the female gave no more thought to the strange new dimension of domesticated dining that had been added to her life.

Apparently, love could conquer all -- even instincts.  As time progressed and the inexperienced bride became a matron, she would come to the feeder with her brood when it was time to wean her young.  In effect, this conscientious little mother taught her children the new language she had learned, and thereby increased their chances for long, reproductive lives.

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The bird buffet in the back yard was suspended in a large oak, six feet from our patio.  Clay pots full of brightly colored plants and flowers encircled the base of the tree.  One afternoon, it was so hot that even the wind was taking a siesta; only the low, somnolent buzz of cicadas rustled through the leaves.  I went around with a large watering can, delivering relief to the potted accent plants I had situated throughout the landscape.

As I reached below the feeder to pour refreshment on the flowers circling the oak, my attention was drawn to the cat that had been standing there when I walked up.  Nivens was as still as a porcelain figurine, posed in a classic bird-dog point -- ears and whiskers included!  Eyeballs unmoving, every fiber of his being was concentrated on one spot.  Following his stare, my gaze focused on a sandy-colored circle among the plants.

There lay a great, heaping wad of rattlesnake!  Pattern blending into the background and coils mimicking the roundness of the containers chosen as cover, this clever predator was well concealed.  Even the warning signal created by its shaking tail had been toned down in cadence and volume to blend with the hypnotic symphony of the cicadas.

Poised for pouring -- bent over with my watering can pointed straight at the reptile I was about to bathe -- I froze, echoing the stance of the cat.  From the plumpness of its sections and the width and depth of the scaled pile, I judged the snake to be about six feet long.  To me, this translated into an approximate five-foot lunge range, with me at about a foot and a half away!  Only then did my heart lurch at the implications.  Warm, hungry, cunning, and obviously confident with experience, the diamondback would have every advantage, although the snake was on my home turf.

As if in silent agreement, Nivens and I tried to become invisible, both knowing that the tiniest bit of movement -- left or right -- could mean our death.  Side by side in unison, we each took a step backwards in a glide so gentle we could have been blown by a single breeze.  Ever so slowly, matching step for step in our wind-lifted minuet, we receded in a straight line until our feet could feel the pavement of the porch.

Both of us then drew our first breath since we began our retreat.  We swallowed and looked into each other's eyes.  Death had reduced us to equals -- had stripped us clean to the bare bones of our desire to live.  We were tuned to the same wavelength, identical thoughtless impulses flowing through us, translating into the mirrored actions of our bodies.  More amazing than still being alive -- Life apparently was an independent entity that had communicated us both to safety!  Struck momentarily dumb by fear, our endangered mortal shells had no thoughts, but responded instead to the exact same message, relayed in the silent, universal language of Life.

There is a fine line between adaptation and becoming a destructive force within the environment.  Fat and complacent from repeated visits to the feeder, Mr. Snake had become a danger to us all.  Knowing he would be back (not to break bread with, but to consume, my other guests), I immediately and regretfully asked a neighbor to kill the predator.  Willful, defiant, and confident of his mastery of the world, the rattler did not heed the call to withdraw that the cat and I had answered.  After he was shot, I buried him and mourned the death of an otherwise good and useful creature.

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Squirrels were teased from the trees as well, by our seed stations.  Once on the ground, these playful animals discovered and preferred the dry dog kibble left in a bowl on the patio for our English mastiff.

Sadie was a one hundred and eighty-five pound canine sugar-baby who wouldn't hurt a wasp if it were stinging her nose.  Long-legged, she would lie down to eat with her bowl centered between her paws.  As she spread out one day, sated after an afternoon snack, I watched as a squirrel ran up to her bowl.  Only the big dog's eyebrows moved as the fluffy-tailed rodent helped itself to a good-sized pellet and then ran to the edge of the porch, where it leisurely consumed the pilfered meal.  After a few return trips, the satisfied squirrel disappeared up the oak tree it had descended.

I observed this mutual adaptation pact in action many times.  Each occurrence further impressed upon me the thought that the Garden of Eden exists here and now in your own back yard, or wherever you might be.  More than a state of mind, Paradise is a state of heart achieved by tuning in to and harmonizing with Life -- by adapting.  I found it ironic that it had been necessary to eliminate a deadly serpent from my little garden paradise, to ensure that such events could occur.  Feeling compassion for God, I was able to understand how the Creator must've felt (and must feel) concerning our own human nature.  When Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden, God told them not to eat the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, for in that day they would surely die.  How sad that Man, intended for such joy and productivity, should make a wrong choice that resulted in his expulsion from Paradise and certain death, instead.

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Armadillos were also frequent visitors in my tiny suburban sanctuary.  Our organic gardening had transformed the native sugar-sand into soft, fertile loam, where earthworms and grubs flourished.  Enticed by these treats, one little armored digger came by on a nightly basis to help himself.  Every morning I would step outside to find that my lawn had been turned into what looked like a minefield, and my flower-beds (so neatly mulched with leaves) had been rooted up into waves of crested dirt.  I was encouraged rather than exasperated by this; the armadillo's evening forays into my soil were an indication that I had achieved the natural balance that is the objective of every organic gardener.  Since nothing was ever dug up but was tilled around, I considered this hungry creature to be an asset.  His loosening the ground that had been hard-packed around my plants by the Florida rains assured that everything would grow better.

Though I never saw this little earth-mover, I became quite fond of him and considered him an active member of my household and family.  Observing new excavations always caused me to broadcast feelings of joy, welcome, and affection for my unknowing garden assistant.

At Thanksgiving, my mother came down from Ohio to celebrate the holiday at my house.  After we ate and the sun went down, I turned on the front porch light and stepped outside to test the weather.  There was brother armadillo, busily nosing through the oak leaves blanketing my flower-beds, looking for his own Thanksgiving meal.  Happy at finally getting to meet and thank my helper in person, I walked right over to him, bent down, and scratched him behind his upright, coarsely haired ears!

His lips making little smacking noises as he devoured some tasty morsel, he paid no notice as I gently stroked his tough hide.  Nuzzling and snuffing along, the armadillo's rubbery little snout left softly shadowed circles in the moist dirt, reminiscent of hogs I had raised in my teen-aged years.  They had enjoyed a good ear-scratching, too.

Desiring to give my mother a gift that no one else in the world would be able to duplicate, I quietly called to her to come and pet the armadillo.  Her surprised response was the question, "Why on earth would I want to pet an armadillo?"

Seriously, I asked her when on earth she would ever again get the chance to pet a live, wild armadillo?  Born with the soul of an angel and a living example of peace and balance, my mother smiled and joined me. As a testament to these statements on her character and nature, the worm-seeking creature continued to munch away uninterrupted as Mom ran her hand from his head to his tail.  When we had our fill of wonder over this privilege (a heart can only hold so much joy!), we faded unacknowledged into the darkness, leaving my young friend to root out my grubs and his own destiny.

A week later I heard a gunshot ring out and reverberate through the neighborhood.  I flashed back mentally to the rattlesnake in my garden.  In that same moment, I heard a triumphant male voice shout, "I just shot an armadillo!"  The man sounded overjoyed, and my heart broke.  I envisioned the man's well-manicured yard and flower-beds, devastated on a daily basis as mine had been.  In my heart, I knew I had lost a friend, a relative, and an important part of the lifecycle in my bit of Paradise.  Brother armadillo never returned, but he had touched my life and soul forever.

Mourning, I again reflected on the deep sorrow that must exist in God's heart -- not over the loss of life (for all things are recycled to live and serve again), but over the willful, self-centeredness of his finest creation: Man.  Man, confident in his mastery of the world, insists on chasing Paradise out of his own life.

"All are my relatives" or "We are all related" is a Native American phrase used to signify the end of any ceremony performed to awaken the God-center in a person.  True spiritual awareness affirms that we are all connected in the family circle of Life.  Adaptation is nothing more than learning the language of this ever-turning wheel.  And in the end, we are our brothers' keepers.