Here’s a holiday gift, a children’s picture storybook
manuscript (dedicated to proselytizing Christian fundamentalists everywhere.)
Little Fox gazed at a faraway hillside bathed in sun and
dressed in flowers. “I want to go there,” she told her mother. “You must first
cross the River,” said her mother. “Will you show me?” asked Little Fox. “You
must learn for yourself,” answered her mother.
Little Fox set out on the shady forest trail, hearing the
friendly sound of pine needles under her toes. “I can cross the River,” she
told herself. She walked among the meadow oaks, smelling the familiar scents of
the tall grass. “I *will* cross the River,” she told herself. She scampered
with ease up the ridge, feeling the warmth of the rocks. “I’m nearly there”,
she sang to the sky.
She reached the River, and saw that it was not like the
rocks, or the grass, or the pine needles. It was dark, and wide, and moving
swiftly. She noticed a water strider in a quiet pool near the bank. “How do I
cross the river?” she asked the strider. He answered, “Get across? Simple.
Walk.” Little Fox stepped on the water, but all she got was a wet foot. “I
guess I can’t walk on water,” she said. “But I still want to cross the river.”
The strider replied, “Perhaps you should be a strider?”
A duck waddled up. Little Fox asked, “Do you know how I can
cross the river?” “Yes, indeed!” harrumphed the duck. There is only ONE WAY.
You must SIT on the water and kick your feet. Of course, you MUST have
feathers!” “I have fur,” said Little Fox timidly. “That won’t work,” snapped
the duck. “You do it MY WAY, or you’re stuck. Too bad you will never be a
duck!” The duck plopped into the river and paddled away, tail feathers held
high.
Little Fox was confused… “Only *one* way?” Then a dragonfly
buzzed up. “Don’t listen to old feather-brains,” she buzzed. “Flying is the
only way to flyyyyyyyy…..” In no time, she had disappeared across the River.
Little Fox wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but she was certain she couldn’t
fly. An otter told her that swimming was fun, but when Little Fox tried it, she
nearly drowned. The otter swam away, singing “Otters are the only ones, only
ones, only ones…”
Little Fox was wet and cold and sad. Maybe the other animals
were right. Maybe she was not meant to cross the River. Maybe she needed to be
someone else. But something nudged her foot. A fish. Little Fox quickly asked
her, “Was I meant to cross the River?” “Why cross?” replied the fish. “The
River has everything I need. It’s where I belong.” “Should *I* belong in the
River?” asked Little Fox, more confused than ever. “Are you a fish?” asked the
fish. “No, I am Little Fox.” “Then where should Little Fox be?” the fish asked,
wide eyes unblinking.
Little Fox closed her eyes and looked in her heart. Then she
opened her eyes to see the beautiful hillside. “There, that’s where I belong”
she told the fish. “But first I must cross the River.” “Then you *shall* cross
it,” said the fish. “But *how*? I’m not a dragonfly, or a duck, or an otter…”
“You will find your own way,” said the fish, disappearing into the dark water.
Little Fox walked a ways along the bank. Other animals were
crossing the River, each in the one and only way they knew—the spider on a
thread, the frog from rock to rock. Little Fox closed her eyes to
concentrate…”my own way… my own way… my own OUCH!” She opened her eyes and
jumped back. A huge dead tree was crashing down, bridging all the way across
the River. Now her path was clear. It felt right as she stepped up onto the
trunk. Slowly, and carefully like a fox, she walked among the limbs and leaves
until she could leap down to the other shore.
Little Fox was happy. “I found my *own* way,” she told
herself. “I’ve crossed the River, and I am still Little Fox.