The Saint and the Squirrel
An old story for troubled times
Today I’ll share a short story, passed down from storytelling elder David Campbell, and muse story as a gentle light in troubled times.
The story is a sweet tale, involving Gaelic Scotland’s favourite saint and the inspiration he receives from a tiny squirrel. It offers a ray of hope when the ills of the world seem too great to remedy. It’s a tale I sometimes finish storytelling sessions with, and a story I revisit when the darkness of the world encroaches.
On days when the weight of the world seems heavy, and the sharpest sliver of hope remains, I’m cheered by a simple story of a saint and a squirrel.
Columba and the Squirrel
Officially, the patron saint of Scotland is Saint Andrew, who inspired the national flag of white cross on the blue background. But to the Gaels of the West and north, the most cherished saint is Columba. He came across from Ireland in a coracle (a cow-skinned boat) to spread his message of truth and light. He converted many of the so-called heathen Picts on his way, but it wasn’t always easy.
Columba travelled from Iona up the length and breadth of Scotland, sighting the Loch Ness monster on his way to visit the King of the Picts in Inverness.
He paddled up Loch Ness when he noticed a commotion at the side of the shore. The Loch Ness Monster, or ‘the Beastie’ as she was known locally, had been terrorising the locals and chewing on a local swimmer. Accompanied by some devoted companions, Columba ordered one of his monks (a man of strong faith!) to swim out into the dark waters of Loch Ness.
As the monk swam out into the loch, the Beastie raised her ugly head and veered towards the swimmer. In a heartbeat Columba made a holy sign of protection and spoke a timeless incantation. The water rippled, the swimmer splashed in terror, Nessie writhed, and then she slunk back underneath the dark waters. The miracle Columba had performed gained him much local credit. Since then, Nessie’s been rather shy and mysterious.
Columba impressed King Brude, the king of the Picts, with his natural magic and powerful incantations. It was greater even than the King’s High Druid.
So for a while, things were going swimmingly, as he impressed and persuaded many of the Picts to join his cause. But they weren’t all empathetic to his faith. Challenges met him daily. He witnessed violence and drunkenness and ignorance. On some days his mission felt hopeless.
One day, he was feeling downhearted and despondent, whilst returning south in his cow skin boat. He doubted that his work would ever be complete or the veil of ignorance lifted. He stared across the endless, slate-grey waters of the loch. He needed encouragement. What he needed was a sign.
He looked up to the sky, opened his hands and called out, ‘Lord, if I am truly doing your work, if I’m meant to continue this good work, give me a sign. If not, I feel like I should just give up.’
Columba looked up in the sky, hoping for something- maybe a dove, or cloud in a fortuitous shape…but nothing…endless grey sky, nothing significant.
He looked around for something that might indicate God’s favour. But nothing met his eye with promise.
And so, his shoulders slumped, his head hung, he carried on paddling until the end of Loch Ness. He stepped from his boat on to the shore, he pulled his boat behind him, and he was about to walk to the next stretch of water when he heard a mysterious sound- ‘sploosh-te, sploosh-te, sploosh-te.’
‘What was that?!’ He looked around and there was no one there, but he kept hearing the sound— ‘sploosh-te, sploosh-te, sploosh-te.’
At the edge of the loch, small and auburn, tufted ears, a bushy tail—a little red squirrel. And the squirrel was dipping her tail in the loch, and flicking it on the shore— ‘sploosh-te, sploosh-te, sploosh-te.’
In all his travels, Columba had never seen anything so strange. He walked up to the little squirrel and said, ‘Little sister, what is the meaning of this unusual behaviour?’
She looked up at him, she pointed backwards and said, ‘I’m emptying the loch.’ and carried on, ‘Sploosh-te, sploosh-te, sploosh-te.’
He couldn’t resist a chuckle. ‘Little sister, a tiny squirrel like you will never empty this whole loch—look—it stretches for miles, it’s fathoms deep. I mean, how absorbent is that little tail of yours? You will never do this; this is an impossible task.’
At hearing this, the squirrel hung her head, her lip started quivering. A tear ran down the side of her nose. She spoke and said, ‘I suppose you’re probably right.’
‘Don’t worry little squirrel, it’s a beautiful autumn day—go and gather hazels, go and gather acorns—prepare for winter like the rest of the squirrels, enjoy nature’s bounty.’
Columba left her there, and cheered by this interaction, he returned to his boat to carry on his journey.
Yet, just as he was about to leave, he heard again— ‘sploosh-te, sploosh-te, sploosh-te’. The squirrel was at it again!
He walked up to the squirrel and said, ‘Little sister, did I not tell you this is a hopeless task? A tiny squirrel like you will never empty the whole loch.’
‘No,’ said the squirrel, ‘that may be true, but it will make it all the easier for the next squirrel.’
And that was said to be the sign that Columba needed to continue with the work that he felt to be true and good. What he couldn’t do, those who followed him could continue. For better or for worse, in his mission he was successful, inspired by this small, tenacious squirrel.
Why this story?
Recently I got sick, and I’m a rather pathetic patient. Bedridden for a few days, nauseous with a smart phone is a recipe for doom and despondency. With sickness in my body, my mind turns to the ills of the world, and surely, in these times there is no shortage of them.
Wherever we look, we see signs of a trophic cascade of social and ecological issues. In a living system, one thread frays and the whole fabric is at risk of unravelling.
Insect numbers plummet as the oceans swell. Three swallows dance in the summer sky, when we may expect thirty. Salmon, a keystone species, swim up Scottish rivers in 5% of the numbers they did 50 yers ago. Rather than address issues of ecological decline, monstrous energy schemes dominate the countryside amidst the latest wave of greenwashing.
Cost of living crisis and austerity measures become familiar. Social investment is reduced whilst military spending increases.
Inept governments and corporate media gaslight us daily without a hint of shame.
Tech bros compete to reach space whilst forests burn.
The keen of ear hear the boots of fascism marching to a 1930s-esque rhythm.
This list isn’t exhaustive, and I haven’t even mentioned the ‘G’ word yet. The one that talk show hosts and politicians still avoid speaking, despite international court orders and live streamed video evidence.
18 months of horrors in Gaza defy words. Rather than ending the massacre and holding the perpetrators to account, there is an escalation towards wider war and outrage at hip hop artists who call for its end.
Irony is lost on those who froth at the mouth calling punk bands to be held accountable for words deemed violent, whilst happily sending weapons directed towards hungry people queueing for aid. It’s a level of dystopia that even the most cynical of us didn’t expect.
Burnout, frustration, anger and grief are the appropriate response to what we see unfolding. Buddhist activist Joanna Macy frames this time the ‘Great Unravelling’, potentially a ‘Great Turning’. She reminds us of living systems theory and our role within it.
“Of all the dangers we face, from climate chaos to nuclear war, none is so great as the deadening of our response.”
"Out of this darkness a new world can arise, not to be constructed by our minds so much as to emerge from our dreams. Even though we cannot see clearly how it's going to turn out, we are still called to let the future into our imagination. We will never be able to build what we have not first cherished in our hearts." ~ Joanna Macy
Someone said it’s easier to imagine the end of the world than it is the end of capitalism. We need to dream beyond apocalypse and back our dreaming up with action. One squirrel droplet at a time.
Should I stick to my lane?
This isn’t a political column, it’s about storytelling, community, ancestral life ways and the natural world, yet each affect the other. The storytellers of old held responsibility to call out regional chiefs and lords, to ridicule even the king, when they abused their power. Some tales are bright, some sombre. If narrative didn’t matter, the BBC wouldn’t do somersaults to create farcical headlines that obscure what’s happening in the Levant.
Storytelling isn’t the panacea some would claim. It has a small role in wrestling a better world back from the jaws of the geriatric-imperial-tech beast and its insatiable hunger.
Yet, narrative is important. Folk knowledge passed on through story and song has value. Eye to eye, live fireside entertainment is a tonic. The stirring of the imagination has merit, as we can only create something we have first imagined. In these times, the food growers, the front line disruptors, conscientious parents, and a myriad of other folk hold greater utility than we peddlers of fairy tales. Yet, storytelling is part of the solution. A small, quiet, and largely symbolic part of the revolution.
On an inspired day I might claim that stories affect belief, belief affects culture, culture affects behaviour, and so the stories we tell are the foundation of any great change. On less inspired days I’m just telling tales for the craic.
The mighty poet and storyteller Tom Hirons said to me once, ‘Storytelling is about the movement between gravity and light’. He speaks the truth of a bear catching songs from the stars. The gravity of these times can understandably pull us down. The best storytellers feel that gravity, yet carry at least a thimble full of luminosity, sipping and liberally spilling, whilst traversing this spectrum with drunken grace.
Columba’s furry encounter
I don’t usually pick up monotheistic tales, yet this one speaks beyond faith or creed. It’s a reminder that to the early saints, there was no contradiction between the ways of their faith, and the beauty, abundance and wisdom of the natural world. This story comes from a time when faith was related to observable truth and natural law, not didactic book knowledge.
The natural educator and culture maker Jon Young, suggests we direct our efforts towards a 200 year plan. Restoration takes time and it may be those who come long after us that feel the benefit of our actions. We plant trees under which we will never enjoy the shade. In moments of global stress such as this, we may not have grand solutions but small acts are still within our reach. Such acts are our obligation, and may be all that keeps us sane.
Mac McCartney explains learning about the concept of a ‘children’s fire’ from First Nation North American teachers.
“Each time we gather in council we will build a small fire in the centre of our circle of chiefs. The Children’s Fire. This fire will be a living reminder of our pledge to hold the children in out hearts as we create and break laws, settle disputes and lead our people. No law, no decision, no commitment, no action, nothing of any kind will be permitted to go forth from this council that will harm the children, now or ever.”
Our elected leaders showcase our democratic poverty, yet notions of true leadership exist, and some suggest the solutions we need for this moment have been with us for a long time. Ideas preserved under the permafrost are ready to thaw and move amongst us once more. Older cultures remain relevant as the post-industrial world implodes. Good soil, forest density, clean water, earth based skills and fine folk become essential again. Granny becomes more valuable than wikipedia.
When I indulge in screen addiction it’s like sharing a ‘comedown’ with a household of ghouls. The allure is such that I keep going back, yet it’s seldom satisfying. When I follow Columba’s lead and turn to the living world, I have a felt sense of possibility and belonging. The way of the natural human being is one of remembering, not conjuring. People have lived sustainably for millennia, managing to royally screw things up over a few centuries.
The old stories can help facilitate that remembering, and for a moment cut through a modern matrix of doom and despair.
Challenges mount, yet the gift of life is still to be cherished, and the good earth is as benevolent as ever. Despite it all, the flowers still blossom, the salmon still swims up river, the fire still draws people in. Laughter, love and music endure.
To any who have forgotten the world still holds such beauty we can be the squirrel and toss them a hazel nut. When we forget, return to the water’s edge and call our fluffy tailed cousin.
As Joanna Macy says, ‘sunsets can be beautiful too’. In this time of uncertainty, the least we can do is add beauty.
It’s going to be beautiful to see what we dare to do. Facing our fears, and letting go of and getting over our knee-jerk reactions to what we think we don’t like, or are afraid of. To see our capacity to walk into the fire. To discover how much we really love being alive. To give ourselves a taste of what that passion is. To let us fall really in love with our planet, and its beauty, and to see that in ourselves, as well as in each other. (Joanna Macy)
The story of Columba and the squirrel is a simple tonic in these times.
For all of us that dream and strive for better times. For a time when profit shall not equate to violence, when common humanity is recognised and our place in the living world is celebrated.
For a time of peace, and flourishing and music and feasting and remembering.
For a time of more dancing in the mud and less despairing at the matrix.
For all of us casting seeds of resistance and change into the fertile earth, even as the hum of the machine grows more garish.
For everyone showing up in small yet meaningful ways, may this story land in your pocket, and maybe find its way onto your tongue.
May this tale of Columba be a tonic in these times. May we have his patience and tenacity.
The gentle glow of a story won’t change the world entirely, but for a moment reflects a light back at us. It is around such light we can gather.
*Stories, songs, poems and even psalms can offer a thread of connection to an older time, pre-medieval, pre-witch trials, to a cultural fusion of natural immersion and secular faith. Gaelic psalms and blessings from the Western islands sometimes still carry this essence.
The mystic finds truth at the bottom of the well.
The Hebridean climbs its depth unfearingly.
Hence his faith that in the heart of every experience
lies a benediction,
that every ill hap opens a door to some larger good.
Upon a certain May morning a blind woman sat delighting in the glory of it.
At her feet a young girl who stared at dreams that rode mistily by.“And what is the likeness of the sea today?” said the blind one,
The girl answered, “Like a maiden vestured in pale-blue silk
and it rippling it softly in the wind.”
“Ah! The blessed wind”, said the old one,
“Clover and music in it the live-long day.
The very breath of dear god and purpose in every gust of it.
There is a purpose in all things
and who so finds it wins the strength to bear.”(Hebridean Altars, Alistair Maclean)