The illusion of helpfulness

I want to share with you a tale about mallard ducks that resided in the pond out my front door. The scene is picturesque, with cozy one-bedroom cottages nestled among sturdy oak trees, basking in abundant sunshine and tranquility. When I moved here, I was alone, embarking on a journey prompted by a compelling inner voice that once led me to a momentous decision to leave Sonoma. Leaving California for New York, my return to my upstate roots was marked by a desire to live in Manhattan, a dream I am determined to fulfill. Despite being drawn back by an opportunity to work on a political campaign, unforeseen political machinations emerged, leading to the candidate’s resignation. Though I had doubts, I proceeded, focusing on the adventure and experience of the path rather than simply arriving at my final stop. I found myself adrift in unfamiliar surroundings, the weight of financial insecurity pressing down as I searched for work on a meager social security income.

Just before departing, I experienced a dilemma when I watched Martha Stewart showcase her garden in the Hamptons, sparking a desire to live on similar land. However, upon realizing it was out of reach, I shifted my focus to finding a place near the water for sailing. After facing challenges in finding a suitable place, I decided to look for a winter rental through VRBO, eventually securing a coop by the pond among fierce competition. I was also reflecting on my decision to live without pets after having to put down my beloved cats due to life circumstances and age. That was incredibly difficult, leaving me drained and exhausted. To me, pets are a reminder that we have holes in our hearts and they somehow fill them. I decided to heal that part of myself.

early spring of that year, I witnessed a mallard hen and her eleven ducklings waddle across to the pond. It was a sight that left a lasting impression on me.

So I watched and observed the new baby ducklings from my window. I took many photos and videos of them learning to jump over the fence and how to swim. I would sit outside with my coffee, soaking in the joy of their presence. One by one, they vanished, until finally, the last one was gone. The larger-than-life bullfrogs would pull the ducklings down and swallow them. I was beside myself as I watched the mother try to save them. One day, I heard peeping and saw the mother sitting by the storm drain, just sitting, the peeping, coming from below. One of the ducklings had jumped into the drain to avoid a hawk and couldn’t get out. I fought and fought, but the situation remained stubbornly resistant to my efforts, proving my attempts useless. Three days she endured the sounds of the cries before they ceased.

In my endurance, I became deeply involved in saving the next flock of ducklings by feeding them and caring for them until they were able to fly, which took about four to five months. I made a commitment to help the ducks and followed through on my promise, with them responding positively to the care they received.

They would flock around my door, their gentle drum of their beaks tapping on the aluminum, demanding to be fed. Some even dared to venture inside, but I firmly refused. I had to set boundaries. I lost about six of them that summer, each a heartbreak. But the sweet scent of hope filled the air as the mother instinctively knew what I was doing, and together we saved four. Over time, they thrived, growing stronger until the sound of their wings fluttering signaled their ability to take flight.

As I walked to my car one day, I sensed their presence behind me, their fluttering wings and chirping sounds filling the air. I could almost smell the anticipation in their movements. They were eager to join me, but deep down, I knew I had to resist. It was a bittersweet moment, feeling their soft feathers brush against me as I made the difficult decision to say no. A few weeks later, after no more feed, watching them soar into the winter sky was a mix of relief and sadness. When they returned in early spring, their chirps were like music to my ears, but I stood my ground, resisting the urge to feed them. It was a tough choice, and as they flew away for good, I felt a sense of finality settle in. I was no longer part of the problem.

In essence, effective leadership requires a balance between respecting the past and embracing the future. Leaders must be able to learn from their experiences while remaining open to new possibilities.