To begin with, I don’t believe in reincarnation. Indeed, to be honest, there are a few doctrinal tenets in my Christian religion that I don’t believe in either. (Don’t ask.) But one thing no tradition knows for sure is what happens to humans after we die. (Well, besides the obvious.)

Based on personal experience, I hold a couple of theories about life after life which I find helpful and hopeful. But on the whole, my main concern is trying to get right the life I’ve got right now, not the mystery that may or may not convey something like “me” into something like eternity. So…what was I going to say about reincarnation?

Just this: I’d like to come back as a squirrel.

Our home in a park-like midtown neighborhood of Kansas City is home to a lot of squirrels. I believe there are eight or ten who consider our yard their territory, with its blessing of black walnut trees, berry bushes, sunflower seeds flung to the ground from bird feeders, and other convenient snack sources.

These are gray squirrels and they all look alike to me—no difference in size, say, between adults and juveniles, no difference in color, in agility up and down the trees, or in chit-chit-chatter. This year’s gang may be last year’s survivors or their offspring or their grand-rodents. I can’t tell. They all look the same and behave the same and generally mind their own squirrel business, which they all seem to know from the squirrel playbook.

I use the word playbook deliberately; because play or the appearance of play constitutes their main occupation. Someone should invent a theme park ride duplicating the spiral climb of one squirrel chasing another squirrel up the trunk of a tree at top speed—and back down again. That would be a thriller for sure. Their daredevil leaps from branch to branch, or across the void between a branch and a rooftop, defy gravity and common sense. I’ve never seen one miss a safe landing. They skitter tiptoe across the overhead power cable that spans our street, thus avoiding the hazard of speeding wheels below. They lounge asleep on horizontal branches with their little legs splayed out on each side for security while they snooze. They clutter the patio table with walnut shells like they’ve been having a party. It all looks totally carefree. In fact, it looks like a fine way to spend my next lifetime.

Clearly that lifetime would be brief, two to six years (I’ve learned) for these backyard guys. Our local squirrels may have inherited a certain amount of intelligence, because the dumb ones often succumb to vehicular squirrelcide while the smart ones know to use the cable bridge. Surely I would come back as an intelligent squirrel? Squirrels probably have no sense of time, so six years could be six hundred for all they know. And every one of them fun-filled.

I’ve never seen a skinny squirrel. I’m pretty sure they know where to get tasty food year-round without much effort. More time to play! The huge leafy clumps of squirrel nests high in the trees hold tight, even when rocked madly in the wind. They look cozy enough for long nights in winter. From way up there, the squirrels have a great view. Even when snow covers the ground, squirrels play their perpetual game of “find the buried booty and dig it up” which seems to keep them busy without much concern for success.

Yes, if You please, I think I would like to come back as a squirrel. Amen.