All The Little Foxes

It made me think of the wasted opportunities that are lost to little foxes of “doubt” — about stories never written, journeys never taken, loves never known, truths never told — because of the little foxes of doubt nibbling at the edges of our confidence and courage.


“Little foxes,” she said.

My friend and I were walking with dogs. It was early morning, late autumn. We were discussing everything and nothing. And we were not walking too near to each other, which somehow prohibits the natural sharing of confidences. But we had been talking about something — I can’t remember exactly what — that concerned small worries, the kind that keep you awake at night and prevent you from truly enjoying a day of doing nothing. And that’s when she said: “Little foxes.”

It’s the little foxes that eat the tender grapes in the garden, she elaborated. The little foxes that can ruin the garden. It was a reference from the Bible, she said.

Although I didn’t remember the Biblical passage itself, I did recall the Lillian Hellman play by that name. And her metaphorical use of “little foxes” to represent greed, and to example the harm done by those who simply look on, silently, as the garden is eaten away.

It made me think of the wasted opportunities that are lost to little foxes of “doubt” — about stories never written, journeys never taken, loves never known, truths never told — because of the little foxes of doubt nibbling at the edges of our confidence and courage.

I suspect little foxes can take the form of “guilt” as well — the need to perform tasky little duties we feel we must get through before we allow ourselves to reach out for something bigger, or more satisfying, or more personally rewarding. Eat the vegetables before the dessert. Practice the scales before playing the song. Read the emails before reading the book. Rake the leaves in the front yard before scrunching through the wild ones on a proper walk in the woods.

I also suspect there are little foxes of “fear” that can disrupt any number of new gardens of beginnings. Even now, when our need for new beginnings has perhaps never been greater and more compelling and more possible. And I suspect that the greatest of these fears is the one of letting go. Letting go of the known, the familiar, the comfortable, the safe.

Later that day I raked the leaves from my front lawn, fully appreciating the irony of it, with the sound of the rake itself repeating the words “foxes, foxes, foxes” as the tines scraped across the ground. And I looked up from beneath the large maple tree under which I had been raking, and I noticed that only the top half of the tree had released its leaves. The bottom half was still clinging to its red coating of familiar fall beauty. Only the part with the most new growth, the arms outstretched for a new spring yet to come, had let go of its old leaves. And I remembered that foxes, too, are born mostly in the spring and summer — but venture out on their own, beginning their own true lives, only in the autumn — just as the forest leaves are released from the trees.

“Little foxes,” she had said. And I felt them nipping at my consciousness. And so I leaned the rake against the base of the tree and gathered up the dog for a proper walk in the woods. And we scrunched through the wild, fallen leaves, and I thought about beginning a new book and beginning a new garden, and about releasing all the little foxes.

© Marti Healy 2020, Used with Permission.

Picture of Marti Healy

Marti Healy

Marti Healy is a writer living in Aiken with dog Quincy and cat Tuppence.  She was a professional copywriter for longer than 35 years, and is a columnist, book author, and popular speaker, whose work has received national recognition and awards.
Picture of Marti Healy

Marti Healy

Marti Healy is a writer living in Aiken with dog Quincy and cat Tuppence.  She was a professional copywriter for longer than 35 years, and is a columnist, book author, and popular speaker, whose work has received national recognition and awards.

In the know

Related Stories

The Case for Chocolate | Palmetto Bella

The Case for Chocolate

How is it mothers always know what’s going on behind their backs, especially when it’s something naughty? I loved sugar as a small child. When no one was looking, I’d get into the sugar bowl. There usually wasn’t much activity or supervision in the dining room, and the sugar bowl tempted me. I would use the spoon in the bowl to scoop up the sugar and put it in my mouth, and then wait in bliss while it slowly dissolved on my tongue. Evidently this was very naughty, and my mother always knew. It took me a long time to find out how. The spoon was sterling silver, a souvenir

Read More »
Taking Action | Palmetto Bella

Taking Action

“Opportunities are like sunrises. If you wait too long,you miss them.” ~ William Arthur Ward This year has me wondering — is there more? More to life perhaps? More I can do? More I want to do? Many of us have had more downtime in the past year that we’ve ever had before. Lots of thinking time, lots of planning time. We all know that time is not finite, but when life comes to a jarring halt as it did in 2020, maybe it’s time to reassess what we want the rest of our lives to be. Most will probably want more travel, more family, more normal. This time of

Read More »
Dogs Riding in Cars | Palmetto Bella

Dogs Riding in Cars

I suspect it may be the reason most dogs keep us around. We can drive cars … and trucks and motorhomes and motorcycles. And, as a result, we can seemingly create the very wind itself. To the senses of dogs riding in cars, I suspect it seems we can also somehow make all the best smells float on the air at once, with a cacophony of new and familiar sounds intertwined and changing every few seconds. We magically bring farms with fields of horses into view before they dash past us with glorious speed. We find new people to watch walking and riding bikes, and other dogs to call out

Read More »
Why I Love Daffodils | Palmetto Bella

Why I Love Daffodils

There is something magical about daffodils. The mere shape of the flower seems to trumpet the arrival of spring, announcing something new and exciting. Imagine March in the Lowcountry with a sea of yellow daffodils covering a yard that stretches all the way down to the banks of Abbapoola Creek. My grandmother Lou would sit on the green porch swing and watch her grandchildren de-daffodil her yard. I can still hear the rhythmic creaking of the chains from the old swing — it almost sounded like a familiar song. She loved watching us pick every flower but there was always another prized daffodil hidden in her yard. The goal was

Read More »