in clover: Vulnerable Joy

I had something written for today but I've just gone to let the chickens out and found one of my hens, a pretty little Rhode Island Red, dead in the coop.   

Emmy Lou was the friendliest of all my girls and the one I would most often hand to a curious child who wanted to hold a chicken.   

This is me with a teenage Emmy Lou the day she came to live with us. 

 And here's a shot of her on the roost with Nancy.

 Back when when had six...sunbathing together.  Emmy is right up front.

I have been dreading the day that I would find a dead chicken.  Honestly, it made me feel sick to think about it.  It made me feel terribly vulnerable.  My friend has kept chickens longer than I have and she told me that every time one of them dies, she says to herself, "I just can't do this anymore.  No more chickens!"  

She also has said to me many times, when wrestling with some difficulty, that she seeks out the calming presence of the chickens.  "What did you do then?" I ask.  "I sat with the chickens."  I do it too.  I call it my chicken meditation.  I have recently made two new friends, both of whom are chicken keepers.  And they report the same sense of peace when they are with their chickens, which seems to be proof that the feelings of vulnerability are worth it, even though it's terribly difficult.  

When I was a single girl, I had a sweet little cat I called "Bubba."  He acted a lot like a dog, greeting me at the door.  I LOVED that cat!  When I was very pregnant with Big C, Bubba died.  A neighbor, trying to stop birds from eating his garden up, had put out poison.  It was awful for me and for over a decade I refused to have another animal. I swore I would "NEVER go through that again."  This makes me laugh now...since I was only a couple of weeks from giving birth.  Seriously! 

We took in my dad's elderly cat when it needed a home but I refused to get very close to him.  And he wasn't very friendly anyway, so it worked for us both.  It was only because of Little c that we have a dog and two cats now....although the chickens are on me.  Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I marvel at how I have exposed myself to vulnerable feelings by allowing animals in my home again.

Brene Brown has this to say about vulnerability: 

"When we lose our tolerance for vulnerability, joy becomes foreboding."  

I am certain, for me at least, this is absolutely true. 

Sometimes, like this morning, exposing myself in this way sucks.  But most days, it's totally worth it and full of joy. 

Maybe I will write a book...."Everything I Needed to Know About Vulnerability, I Learned From a Chicken."
Maybe.

Namaste, 

Lisa

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in clover: remembering Patsy

Last night, when Michael went out just after dark to shut the chicken coop, he found our Dominique hen, Patsy, dead in the nesting box.  We have no idea what happened.  Earlier in the day she seemed fine.  Michael and I worked in the garden in the afternoon and she was out and about as usual.  

Needless to say, we were all quite sad last night.  Circle of life and all....we get it...but this is our first experience of losing a chicken friend.

Dominiques are quite striking in appearance....their feathers are black and white and are irregularly striped or "barred."  They have a red comb.  They are calm and personable. 

This is my favorite photo of Patsy, the Dominique hen.  

Our Patsy was a good layer and we easily recognized her egg.  She laid the smallest egg of the bunch and hers were the nearest to pink in color.  When she began laying, I was quite concerned for her because the shells of her eggs were thinner and more brittle than the others and they were rough in texture, like sandpaper.  But, time went by and she seemed healthy and happy, so I quit worrying, mostly. 

We weren't really sure what to expect when we began our chicken keeping experience.  The work has been minimal, thanks to the deep litter method of hen house keeping.  (Here's a link to a short, informative article on the deep litter method.) I had no idea the chickens would be so entertaining or how much I would enjoy hearing them cluck to one another.  I had no idea the sense of life and energy they would bring to my garden. 

But what I was most completely unprepared for was the level of responsibility I feel for their well being.  It has at times made me quite anxious.  I've sat with this, asking myself why I feel more anxiety and fear for my hens than I do for my dog and my cats.  I think it's because hens are so completely vulnerable. 

Chickens have many predators to worry about.....racoons, foxes, hawks, dogs....and bless their hearts, they have no claws or teeth to use to defend themselves.  They can barely fly and while they are quite speedy when you are trying to catch them, they aren't speedy like a cat or a rabbit.  They can't see well in the dark so a night attack could result in the demise of an entire hen house!  More than once I have woken in the night, sat straight up in bed and shrieked loudly, worried that we forgot to secure the coop.

I am grateful that by all appearances, Patsy died peacefully.  

Patsy may or may not be in these photos taken when we went to visit our friend's chicks....we received six chickens from this group of chicks.  

 

A very young Patsy....trying out the roosting bar in her new home: 

 

 With a young friend, who charmed Patsy by feeding her blueberries....

And this is the last photo I took of Patsy...this summer, as she joined her friend Loretta Lynn in the hen favored left side nesting box: 

 
Last night, after I told little c that Patsy had died, she drew this photo and penned this little obituary.  June Carter is actually c's proclaimed "favorite hen" but maybe that made c feel a little guilty for having a favorite...who knows?  

Like little c, I am glad we have "pichers of her" to help us remember our friend, the little Dominique hen, Patsy Cline.  She was a good girl.  We will miss her.

 peace and all good, 

Lisa

in clover: sitting

It is a stunningly beautiful Sunday in early autumn…the perfect mix of lingering summer warmth and the first bitter, sharp crispness of fall…of sunshine and shadows…of life and death.  

It is everything October can be on its very best day.  A threshold day. 

In my house, we rise early, despite our best efforts to extend sleep. 

I spent yesterday with my Sycamore family, learning about listening.   I learned about listening to someone else.  I learned about listening to myself.  I learned about listening to the Divine.   I learned about opening myself to all of that.  That is some kind of new trinity, I think to myself, as I am falling asleep.  “Remember to tell Michael that, in the morning.”

I am very tired this morning. 

Michael, not remembering that September has given way to October and that I am no longer serving as the Elder in the early worship service, has agreed to do something involving a computer and advancing graphics at church, at 8:15 a.m.  No way can I be there then, showered and smiling and in church clothes.  No way.  (Maybe by the 11:00 service, our usual, but I am not making any promises.) 

“You go.  I’m staying here.”  I tell him.  “I’ll go to the Elder’s meeting at noon.  It’s the best I can do today.”   He dresses and leaves.  It’s just me and the steaming cup of coffee he brought to me. It’s quiet.  Then there comes a sound from my nightstand…something unexpected on a Sunday morning.  I hear the “ding, ding” from my phone that signals a text.  I almost ignore it but change my mind.   

My childhood friend has just lost his father.

In 6^th grade, I sometimes hung out at his father’s drugstore after school.  As we barged through the door, a bell would chime. The store was clean and tidy and well lit…was there muzak playing? I think so. His dad would look up from his work and smile, glad to see his son…glad to see me too, in tow.  I was shy but my friend was not.  That makes me smile, remembering how at home he was, in his father’s business… how warmly the employees greeted him.  

The store was a bit crowded but pleasantly so, just the way I prefer a store be to this day.  The shelves were stocked with everything you might expect to find in a drugstore…aspirin and other remedies… as well as (fancy) boxes of Russell Stover candies and Hallmark knickknacks and a great big magazine rack that took up most of one wall.   

My friend’s father’s street clothes were concealed by a nicely pressed white coat. (Was it embroidered with his name?  I am not sure.)   He didn’t work behind the regular counter, where you paid for every day kinds of things like newspapers and cough drops.  He was most often standing beind pharmacy counter, in the back of the store. It was elevated above the rest.  When I saw my friend’s dad, way UP THERE, he looked very different than he did at other times…different from when he opened the front door of his home to me… or took me for a boat ride on Kentucky Lake.    

This morning, as I learned of his death, I asked myself, “How many candy bars did I owe this man?  How many games at the bowling alley? ” We often made just a quick stop in the store, on our way to the nearby Cardinal Lanes, many times bowling on his dime. When I was the “new kid” at Jackson Elementary, this man’s son was my first friend.  Throughout middle school and high school, this man’s son was my best friend.   In my Christian and Kentucky traditions, I should get right up and get busy.  I should make phone calls.  I should make a casserole and maybe a cobbler….I should offer to entertain the children. 

But I am four hours away and one FaceBook post will take care of the phone calls.  I’m uncomfortable and sad and lonely so I forward the text to a mutual friend, a minister.  I know he will pray.  And I also send a text to Michael, now half way through the 8:30 service at Central.  

“Prayers lifted!” they both reply.

“Thanks be to God.” I say to myself.

I want to do something to honor this man and also my friend and his loss. In spiritual direction I am (slowly) learning to have reverence in all experiences…not just the feel good ones.  “Now what?”  I ask myself.  I remember a sermon from the Senior Minister at Central…something about  sitting next to a Jewish man on a plane…his bible open to the psalms.  He’d preached  something about the Jewish tradition of reading only the psalms when your father has died.  I remember being told to read the psalmist’s words, when my (step) dad died. 

“Got it.  Psalms.  Text that.”  I think to myself.   “Please, please, Spirit. Provide some comfort.”  I remember sterile hospital consulting rooms and sitting with my (step) dad’s body.

Damn!  “Some ‘spiritual director’ you are!”   I have no words for my friend.  He would have words for me, I know.    

I send another text to our friend and to Michael.  “Pray for him!”  

I hear a car door shut.  Michael is home from early service.  “I couldn’t believe you were texting me during church but then I saw that Doug’s dad died.  I’m sorry.” he says.

I announce, “I’m not going to the meeting.  I’ll be sitting shiva for Mr. Ralston. “ 

Quite apologetically, and in the way of someone becoming accustomed to being surprised by me, he responds, “I don't know what that means but if that is what you need to do, you should do it.”   Where in the hell did that come from?  The shiva, I mean, not my husband’s easy acceptance.

Truthfully, I have no idea what it means either.  I don't know why I said it, even. I really don’t. I opened my mouth and those words came out. So I google. 

From Wikipedia:

In Judaism, shiva (  ; also shiv'ah; Hebrew: שבעה ; "seven") is the week-long period of grief and mourning for the seven first-degree relatives: father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister, and spouse. As most regular activity is interrupted, the process of following the shiva ritual is referred to as "sitting" shiva. Shiva is a part of the customs for bereavement in Judaism./ˈʃɪvə/

Ok, well, clearly I am not Jewish and I am not one of the seven first degree relatives but I do manage to latch onto one word….sitting.  This, I think, I know how to do.  I can sit.

I decide to sit for my friend’s father.  I am four hours away and there isn’t a casserole in sight, but I will hold sacred space for my friend and his loss.

I know of only one other thing to say to him. 

“God is with you.”  

So I text that.

And then I sit.