The Centipede

I first spotted him scampering up a wall in a client's garage.  Sizing up his long, worm-like body and all those wiry legs, I affirmed my years-old belief--centipedes are among the most repulsive of creatures.

The second time I saw him, he was behind the bathroom door.  Inside.  Where he didn't belong.  Where I didn't want him.  "Ugh," I said to myself.  "He'd better get out of here."

I'd forgotten about him when my alarm sounded the next morning and I stumblingly made my way into the shower.  But I was shocked into full recollection (and wide-awakeness) the instant I reached for my shampoo bottle.

The water was already running, and I sure as heck wasn't going to touch him to get him out.  I decided I'd continue my shower in record timing, hoping to be well out of the way before he had the inclination to budge.  But he budged.  He tried to make a run for it and was swept by the tide pooling in the bottom of the tub.

"I guess that's what you get for hiding in here," I thought, apathetically watching him struggle for his life.  Had he been a ladybug or a butterfly or even a spider I would have done everything in my power to escort him to safety, but his unfortunate legginess impeded my compassion.

And then it hit me.  Was I really going to stand there and watch an innocent creature suffer because I didn't approve of the way he looked or understand his contribution to the planet?  Was I that heartless?  I reached for the soap dish and tried to scoop him into it, but his almost completely flattened figure made the task impossible.

I turned the water off and gently picked him up with a tissue, laying him on the lid of the toilet seat.  The sight of his limp body filled me with sadness.  I opened my channels to allow Reiki to flow through me and cupped my hands over him, holding my position for several minutes but to no avail.

"I'm sorry," I confessed, giving up my rescue effort. "I should have acted sooner."

My morning routine, which brought me in and out of the bathroom several times, proceeded somberly.  I figured I'd bring him outside for burial once I was ready to leave for the day.  I owed him more than a quick, thoughtless flushing.

When I finally went to retrieve him, I noticed that he seemed a lot more erect--but he remained listless through my gentle shaking of the tissue.  I picked it up to take a closer look at this "bug" that had thoroughly disgusted me only an hour before.  His little black eyes.  His long, brown, intricately patterned body.  Even that delicate cascade of legs.  He seemed cute.  And before my brain registered what my hand was doing, I found myself stroking my finger from his head down along his body.

Wouldn't you know it?  He perked right up as if he'd been awoken from a nap.  Although I'm pretty sure that centipedes don't actually smile, I swear I saw a friendly, happy little grin on his face.

He'd succeeded in delivering the message he'd been sent to.