Groundhog Day

It isn't. However, during spring, summer, and early fall, every day is Groundhog Day in my back yard.

Since I don't grow vegetables, I don't have the hostility that many have towards this large rodent. In fact, I half-wish a dozen lived on my property, because I'd never have to get my grass mowed. I've never seen any animal eat as quickly and cover as much territory as a groundhog. They astonish me.

This is what I like most about groundhogs: the way they periodically pause in their high-speed munching, rise on their hind paws, and look around. This behavior is like that of many animals who regularly check for the presence of predators, but the groundhog's stance is unusually regal, almost Buddha-like in its dignity.

I like it for another reason. This behavior reminds me to do the same—not because a predator might be sneaking up on me but because I need to interrupt my own mindless mental munching and be aware of the present moment.

One of the ways I do this is to turn my eyes away from the computer and look out the window to study whatever animal is within sight. It may be a hawk perched on a tree limb or the ravens who wing past.

It may be a parade of baby turkeys or a fawn. At night the raccoons lean against the glass door of the downstairs part of the house to say hello.

And sometimes it's the groundhog, standing tall, its eyes bright, as if to remind me to be here now.