Rescuing Ladybugs. Jennifer Skiff

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INTRODUCTION

      When we were all children, the ladybug and butterfly stirred feelings of delight, puppies were heavenly, and farm animals made us happy. Our parents taught us that the ladybug — the tiny, red-shelled animal with black spots — brought good luck when she landed on you and that we should gently blow her away so that she could return safely to her family. The story nourished our natural empathy and set us on a path to feel compassion for all animals. We were being taught one of the greatest lessons in life: that kindness for others has rewards.

      In 1998, I had an experience with a bear that confirmed that lesson and changed my life. I was in Asia, in the country of Laos, conducting research for a book I wanted to write. Most of the people in Laos are Buddhists, and I became immersed in the teachings of Buddhism. The religion — sometimes considered a philosophy — suggests that when people do good things, good consequences will return to them, and when people do bad things, bad things will happen. Karma. Buddhism also teaches compassion and instructs people to live in a nonharmful way, never killing or causing another being to suffer.

      I felt clarity finding a spiritual practice based on compassion. But I was soon reminded that religious teachings don’t guarantee enlightened ways, when I stumbled upon a merciless situation in a cultural park.

      I was slowly making my way down a dirt trail at the park, having stopped to read a plaque about Buddha, when my boyfriend yelled, “Jenny, don’t come down this path.” Of course, I did. What I saw weakened my faith in humanity. Black-and-white Asiatic bears, identifiable by the trademark cream-colored collar across their chest, were imprisoned in five cages placed around a statue. Set on concrete slabs, the bell-shaped chambers were constructed of thick iron bars reaching six feet high and four feet wide. They were so small that the bears’ bodies were pushing through the spaces between the bars. There was no protection from the glaring sun, no trees to offer shade. The bears were confined in metal straitjackets, forced upright with nowhere to turn.

      I walked up and stood before one of the bears. He was crying and rocking, with one paw pushed completely into his mouth. Our eyes locked and we connected. In that moment, I felt his suffering. That’s when he reached for me, extending his arm beyond his iron prison. He showed me his paws, blistered from cigarette burns.

      The sadness grew louder. All around me, the bears were crying. I turned in a circle, my heart racing. They were in hell, all screaming for help. My knees buckled and I grabbed a handrail. That’s when my boyfriend said, “Let’s go, Jenny. There’s nothing to be done here. You can’t save every mistreated animal in the world.” I understood what he was saying. But something in me irrevocably changed. In fact, I experienced an epiphany, a profound spiritual realization that, not only could I do something, but I must.

      There are countless times throughout our lives when we’re presented with a choice to help another soul. My experience with the bears, whose complete story I tell in СКАЧАТЬ