They came closed, expectant with colorful promise

Twelve apologies, fresh and fragrant, on a spring morning

They opened slowly, delighted at sun's attentive rays

Twelve wishes, delicate and hopeful, blushing deeper red

They posed patiently, noticing novelty start to wane

Twelve wallflowers, deflated and dejected, lowering their heads

They withered steadily, starved of nutrients and faithful care

Twelve warnings, wrinkled and faded, beneath a graying sky

They fell apart, succumbing to foul, blackened blotches

Twelve reminders, bitter and broken, lying in the dust

Sometimes we go through our days without paying much attention. We flit from one thing to the next without considering if our actions reflect our core values. When we go through life without following our values, we lose ourselves and our ability to generate real happiness.

But when we reflect on our values and strive to live by them, they become the compasses that guide everything we do. They root our actions in a purpose greater than ourselves and give our lives direction and meaning.

Whether stemming from childhood trials or my innate nature, I have grown into a person who prefers to be in a place without confrontation, uncertainty, and chaos. But ignoring the pull of our inner voices and retreating into our comfortable shells does not change the world. And it does nothing for ourselves either.

"Well-behaved women seldom make history." Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

After identifying my primary values as love, education (in many forms including travel), and protecting the earth and its creatures, my purpose became more clear. I never felt right about eating animals. As a self-proclaimed late bloomer, it did take me a while to make significant steps toward being the more authentic, mostly plant-based me.

The year of the Florida bear hunt further prodded me into digging deeper to reveal more of the genuine jewel of my true self and purpose. Knowing that I was aligning my values of education and protection of the earth and its creatures with my actions brought satisfaction and happiness.

So what does this have to do with an opossum’s balls? Let’s be honest, that’s why many of you are reading, right?

In my journey of becoming more educated and active for animals, I began following many animal groups on social media. One of these groups taught me a lot about a very misunderstood animal, the opossum. Of course, these animals were familiar to me. I knew that they were America’s only marsupial, and I’d seen a standoff or two between an opossum and my miniature schnauzer in our yard. Most of the times I saw one was as road kill in our overcrowded, overdeveloped communities.

I always thought opossums were kind of cute but knew many people were put off by their hissing and considered them nuisances. New knowledge consisted of the fact that they are a benefit to ecosystems and a healthy environment and that they are nature’s pest control and clean-up crew. In fact, they each eat up to 5,000 ticks a year. And they hardly ever get rabies. The most important piece of knowledge that I learned, however, is that dead female opossums can have living babies in their pouches for days. These babies slowly starve to death or get killed by traffic if not rescued.

This seems so obvious now, and it is hard to understand why it never crossed my mind before. I watched a couple of videos from rescue groups on how to remove the babies from the pouch as I vowed to take action if – on the very unlikely chance – the opportunity presented itself.

But wouldn’t you know it? Barely weeks passed before my values were tested. As I jogged on the sidewalk along a busy road in Florida on a spring morning, there it was – a large, recently-dead opossum in between the two directions of traffic. I stopped, took off my headphones, and desperately stared into the cars cruising by.

Anyone? Does anyone see? Does anyone care?

Oh, how it would have been easier if someone pulled over and took responsibility.

No one let me off the hook.

I paced back and forth, thinking of the tiny pink babies that were surely scared and starving inside their now-cold mother’s pouch.

I had to do it. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.

I put my hand up to stop traffic on my side and marched over to the animal. I had a plan. The tail, the tail was hairless. After a few tries and squeals, I grabbed it. More than a bit embarrassed, and imagining the onlookers seeing me as Cletus Spuckler from The Simpsons, I dragged the animal to the side of the road.

As I did so, something amazing happened. I looked at the first car in the line that I had stopped. A woman sat at the driver’s wheel and met my gaze. She mouthed the words “thank you” and patted her heart.

But then traffic started again. People looked out their window, staring at what I imagined they saw – a crazy, redheaded woman doing God-knows-what.

A car marked with some sort of home-health business slowly began to crawl up a side street. I waved at her to stop. “Hey, Home Health, can you touch this?”

I asked her if she had rubber gloves, but she didn't.

No one stopped.

I stared down at the opossum’s peaceful face.

Maybe it was a male? Yes, I think it’s a male!

But I wasn’t sure. I thought of its babies.

It wasn’t bloody. In fact, I couldn’t see any injuries from the vehicle that killed it.

The problem now was that the slit for its possible pouch was clearly hidden. I had to pull up its leg and look.

But I really didn’t want to…especially without gloves.

I prepared myself to grab the leg in an attempt to find the pouch, still squealing and pulling back at touching a dead animal. I reached down, firmly grabbed the leg, and lifted up. As I began to try to twist it around, I made a very important discovery. Two, fairly-large opossum testicles.

As I dropped him to the grass, I did my best to nonchalantly jog away. But not before filing away two things. First, the male opossums possess a prominent scrotal sac on the mid-ventral abdomen – which means they are in an unexpected location in front of the penis. And second, I was proud of myself for trying.

Be courageous and dedicated to living your values every day, even if it means stepping out of your comfort zone. Being true to your values can only mean your life will be more fulfilling. Not only will it bring you closer to finding your life’s purpose, but it will guide you to figuring out how you can serve the world.

For me, it’s a process that is slowly becoming a bit more natural. After a recent interview by The Washington Post at a farm sanctuary, I berated myself for not speaking as eloquently as I wanted in support of my values. My husband said to me, “You don’t give yourself enough credit.” While confidence continues to be an obstacle, as I reflected on his words, I decided to give myself credit for something – striving, constantly striving, to improve myself and the world a little bit at a time.

I am dedicated to shedding more layers of camouflage and becoming remarkably real to benefit my own happiness and what I hold precious in the world - even if that includes discovering more opossum balls.

Two scribblers,

strangers yet intimate in ink,

he a word weaver without equal

hypnotizing letters into lines

attentive and perfectly posed

in poetic trance or dance

to end in spellbinding prose

She an apprentice

with stars in her eyes and heart

cracked open revealing

the strain and struggle of each

loop and line painstaking

fictionalizing truth in amateur script

to end in exposing question

Flurries of messages exchanged

in a tennis match of text

her story divulged for his expert eye

ingesting, suckling each syllable

and sloughing callouses

of gauche ambitious hand

guarded domain unearthing

green gold

to end without fingerprints

From across the room

a desperate yearning

in his gaze, magnets find true north

open mouths, tongues touch

a liquid sweet dance ensues, a tornado

twisting and ripping characters

from a scene, a plotline made for two

to end in romance … or tragedy?