Just one or a herd, every time I see deer it feels special. Sacred. I am not entirely sure why. This has been true since I was a child. I am currently away enjoying a few days up north. In the woods, near lakes and rivers, I’ve seen deer daily. Yesterday I saw at least a dozen before noon time. Leaving the restaurant after dinner, there were two in the parking lot. Returning to the cabin, there were four in the yard. These sightings reminded me of one I had in early August closer to home.
Shortly before sunset I went to Belle Isle. Deer are common on this little sanctuary in the Detroit River, but this particular encounter was not. I was on a narrow dirt path nestled tight against the shoreline. The water to the right, a field of tall grasses to my left. I heard it before I saw it. A deer about 25 feet away. I stopped so not to disturb or startle it. It soon looked my direction. Neither of us moving. After a few minutes I gently began walking. The deer did too. In a series of stops and starts, we both headed toward the lighthouse. I think it knew I wasn’t a predator and was playing with me.
The deer would speed up and slow down. Stare my way and then take a few steps. Take a few bites and a few more steps. And then it began pronking, that fascinatingly magical way deer leap with all four legs in the air at the same time. Eventually fading into the trees as I continued on my way.
That night brought to mind a scene from the movie Stand By Me, released in 1986. Based on a story by Stephen King, it recounts the adventure of four teenage boys who set out on foot to find a missing body.
Of course, my favorite character is Gordie Lachance. He’s an introvert, a deep thinker, and a writer, grieving the death of his older brother, wondering what the future holds. Everyone loves his stories. Along the trail, early in the morning while the others are still sleeping, he locks eyes with a young deer on the train tracks. It’s a personal and intimate meeting. He never tells his friends. He keeps it to himself.
Gordie’s deer sighting and my own have me thinking about stories. The ones we tell. The ones we keep to ourselves. The experiences we write about right away. The ones we hold onto. The ones that need more time in our hearts before they reach the page.
For a while now, I’ve been wrestling with the question of what kind of writer am I? What stories am I telling? What stories do I want to tell? What stories get me up in the morning and keep me up at night? What stories matter when the world is crashing around us? What stories am I not telling? Why am I not telling them?
I’ve always thought that Gordie didn’t tell his friends about the deer because he didn’t think they’d appreciate the moment like he did. They wouldn’t respect it. Have you ever shared something really important with someone only for them to not express much interest? Or told someone about a significant event only for them to dismiss it? Poured your whole self into a project only for it to be met with silence? It’s hard. Hurtful. Frustrating. Disappointing. Discouraging. Defeating.
Being a writer is vulnerable. Telling stories is risky. The second you put your words out into the world you let go of the ability to control how others receive them, interpret them, or even acknowledge them. There are so many voices telling writers what they should and shouldn’t write. What will cost the most and what will generate the least.
I write almost everyday. I do not share everything that I write. I share what I hope others can and will connect to. I share what I anticipate others want to read. I share what I believe makes an impact. I share what gets me excited. I share what stirs my curiousity. There are stories I do not share out of caution, self-protection, a lack of confidence, fear, worry, and doubt. I have pages of stories I’m holding close because I know it is simply not their time yet.
After re-watching the movie, I’m re-imagining why Gordie kept quiet about the deer sighting. Maybe it wasn’t because he didn’t trust his friends to understand the meaning, but because he needed time to fully understand it himself.
We might sense the sacredness of an encounter immediately, while also needing days, weeks, months, even years to fully grasp what was so sacred about it. It’s been more than 40 years since my great-grandpa led me to a baby deer curled up sleeping in his rhubarb bushes and I’m still not certain why that image rests in my spirit like a photo framed and hanging above the fireplace.
What kind of writer am I?
The kind that is learning not only how or why to tell a story, but when.
Water-fully yours, Rebecca
Invitation to Reflect
Remember a time you told a story about your life.
How was it received?
Think about a story you haven’t told.
What keeps you holding on to it?
Have you watched Stand By Me?
This year is the film’s 40th Anniversary.
Blessings on your great grandfather. He just passed that beautiful fawn sighting to me through your storytelling.
So grateful for all of your stories that you choose to share. I could see and feel the sacred moments of the deer sightings…it was almost magical. Today I will
Spend time reflecting on my own untold stories.