Going back to college at age 50 had more meaning than it did starting at 18. I had lived long enough to have some direction, was open to new ideas. Most importantly, I knew I still had a lot to learn.

On the first day of classes, my Ethnic Studies professor, a big, blustery, bear of a man, began his lecture with a comment that guides my decisions and actions to this day. “Native Americans looked at the mountain and said, ‘How can we coexist with you?’ The white men looked at the mountain and said, ‘How can we conquer you?’”

All around me, I see what I define as attempts to conquer. Forests destroyed and replaced by huge, intrusive houses, one person looking to degrade another, plans devised to develop dwindling greenspace, new residents insisting on change before learning about their community. And one of my biggest pet peeves, people looking to triumph over our beautiful wildlife. It saddens me greatly and serves to reinforce my desire to coexist with the environs.

I moved to this sweet spot almost 30 years ago. My house is small, blocking no one’s view of the bay. I didn’t erect tall fencing or poison the dandelions in the lawn — dandelions being a first stop for the bees in early spring. I spent time in my new environment, talked to folks who had lived here their entire lives and, with an open heart, I observed the daily activity in my yard and surroundings. Deer came by often to eat the fallen apples, in the neighboring meadow coyotes howled at nightfall, owls hooted, and early morning brought out the bunnies. It was wonderful, and I was ready to make some adjustments. A first task was to assure my cat and dogs would be safe while honoring the wild critters. And where would I plant a small garden?

It wasn’t difficult. Kitty stayed indoors. I put up a low picket fence to corral the dogs while giving the deer yard access. Bunnies and deer quickly learned that my sweet cockers didn’t pose a threat, and they were big boys so coyotes kept their distance. Noisy Westie, Brodie, was a different issue but since I accompanied all of them during yard time, peace was upheld. Vegetables and herbs grew nicely in planters on the deck.

Some people say they’ve encountered aggressive deer. While I’ve never had that experience, I don’t doubt it has happened. They’re frightened and perhaps defensive. Through no fault of their own, they have no place to go. Let’s give that some thought, dig deep for a bit of empathy. We chop down the pines, erect mansions, put up tall fences and take away safe grazing and resting places for our deer, rabbits, coyotes. If given their rightful space, the wildlife will work out life with us on their own. We attempt to conquer and wind up interfering with nature. Recently, for the first time in all my years here, I spotted a bobcat in my front yard. Displaced from his home by an overblown sense of human entitlement, there is little refuge left.

This morning four deer are in the backyard. They come most days to eat the apples on the ground. They come to rest. I’m delighted to share my space. They belong here as much if not more than any of us. I write this not to stir up controversy but to plant a seed, meet nature halfway, offer something to think about that could give all of us a chance to thrive in unity. Every now and then I have the opportunity to share a piece I’ve written about humans and animals. This is one of those occasions.

How humble the links between all living beings — beating hearts, expanding lungs, pain felt as strongly as pleasure, fear experienced as deeply as joy. Two-legged, four-legged responding to kindness, deserving of love. Each breath, each whimper entwined as one spirit enhancing the energy, propelling our universe. A unity of souls, a simplicity of truth — at day’s end we are critters all.

The older I get, the more I get it. We’re not here to conquer, but to coexist.

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. She’s had stories published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books and has written two novels and one fitness book. cmkstudio2@gmail.com