I saw him limp across the road, just past the forest edge. A deer, wounded and alone. He was moving cautiously, not rushed, just a soft look towards me and my dog, Daisy, who instantly sat quietly with reverence watching. There was a quiet stoicism in his movement. It took me a moment to get a better look and then it struck me as a sunbeam caught a reflective surface on one of his rear legs. A dart—someone had shot him. And still, he kept moving.
I stopped walking too and called the emergency line. But the only help they could offer was euthanasia. Mercy, they said. But whose mercy? The person who shot him certainly hadn’t asked what mercy meant.
When I called out to him, he turned back. Our eyes met. And in that moment, my heart cracked open as his tender gaze lingered while a tear of rage dripped down my face. He saw me. For a brief instant, we existed only in that gaze—raw, wounded, alive.
I couldn’t save him. But, once the anger subsided, and the deer was out of my sight, I was left with another question. What does it mean to witness suffering and be unable to change it?
In Hindu mythology, Lord Krishna’s departure from the mortal world carries an uncanny echo. After completing his divine duties, Krishna retreats to the forest to rest. There, a hunter named Jara mistakes his resting figure for a deer and releases an arrow that strikes Krishna’s foot. Upon realizing his mistake, the hunter falls to his knees in sorrow. But Krishna, in his final act, offers not anger but forgiveness. His death, like his life, becomes a lesson in compassion and cosmic grace.
Why did Krishna die this way? The story reminds us that even avatars—divine beings sent to guide humanity—are not immune to fate. The arrow was not simply a mistake. It was the closing of a karmic circle, a reminder that life moves in rhythms we cannot always understand.
When I think of that deer, I see more than suffering. I see Krishna in disguise. I see a spirit sent to remind me that compassion matters even when it doesn’t change the outcome. That seeing matters. That our response to pain is part of our soul’s evolution.
This deer, like Krishna, was not saved. But the witnessing—that mattered. The act of staying present in the face of pain, of honoring another being’s suffering without turning away, is itself a sacred offering.
We live in a world where harm is easy and healing, if at all possible, is slow and maybe painful. Where wild creatures are targeted for sport or indifference (or worse). Where human lives are hurt and discarded as wars and other forms of violence are ever-present. People have grown numb and detached from each other and nature.
But when we soften toward suffering, when we let it shape us instead of shutting us down, we move a little closer to grace and to each other.
The deer turned back as if he knew what words I uttered. “Oh baby, someone shot you!” I proclaimed. Of all the things to say… I can still see his eyes. Not pleading. Not fearful. Just aware. Just there.
And I wonder if that moment was the real message.
Not “save me.” But see me. And now, I do.
I see all of it. The sorrow, the cruelty, the impossibility of undoing what’s been done. And I also see this: Even when we can’t prevent the wound, we can choose how we hold the pain.
As a prayer. As a promise. As a vow to never look away again.
