Chicken. On Ice.

We’ve got one chicken left.

She’s a speckled Sussex with no claws at the end of her toes. We have no idea how that happened but here she is, the last survivor of a once-thriving flock of twenty-eight egg layers, meandering the expanse of our acreage and wondering where everyone is.

She’s a patient soul too. I had an early morning work meeting Friday and left the house well before dawn, so didn’t let her out. At that hour, there’s all manner of poultry predators looking for an opportunity to seize the moment of a human’s poor judgment. I just couldn’t take the chance, so left her safely tucked and locked inside her “coop”. It’s an old rabbit hutch, made of two large dog cages set in a sturdy plywood frame with a slanted roof to shed the rain. The whole unit stands on legs that place it a good four feet off the ground, and the cage doors have dual sliding-lock mechanisms. The front is wrapped in hardware cloth. Last summer, when we transitioned the last two girls out of the traditional brick-and-clapboard chicken coops that sit near the creek (another midnight raid that wiped out six of the remaining eight in the flock, most likely due to a marauding band of weasels or fishers), it took a while for them to learn how to fly up and into the opening to roost for the night. For a time, they’d end up settling onto the work table on the front porch at dusk, and Patrick or I would carry them to the hutch. Most nights, that involved gloved hands and a sneak-up-from-behind approach that often resulted in lots of squawking (I’ll let you figure out who) and running about, chasing them through the grove of mulberry saplings and around to the back of the house. We’d catch them eventually, of course, and tolerate dinner being late or interrupted. For all the entertainment value they’ve brought us over the years, it seemed a fair trade-off.

But on Friday, Patrick wasn’t home in the middle of the day to let her out like he usually does, and so this brave little hen with no claws on her toes didn’t get to greet the dark morning’s delivery of snow on top of a thin sheet of ice that covered every surface and every thin tree branch and froze the truck doors shut.

I got to do that.

The ice had arrived two days earlier, and stayed, which was unusual and strange. Strange to drive on dry roads and see the trees crystalline and unmoving. For two days, we walked through a fine and frozen mist from our cars to the entrances of grocery stores, schools, banks, offices and finally the doors of our homes, telling tales of near-misses and face plants when the soles of our boots lost purchase in the dark. Wednesday morning, I took a spectacular and slow-motion tumble off the slanted steps of the front deck, missing the bottom step completely. But I stuck the landing, got out a shaky “ta-da!” to no one in particular, and gingerly picked my way to the truck, grateful I hadn’t been carrying the crock-pot I needed for a dinner event that evening.

Weather-guessers predicted a wintry mix of sleet and ice followed by two inches of snow, and darn it, this time they weren’t too far off the mark. By the time I ventured out Friday morning, area schools were either closed or on a two-hour delay, and I needed to meet my boss at the office by 6:45. That meant leaving in the dark and hoping fiercely that at least one of the many townships I’d be traveling through had a stalwart salt truck driver with a compassionate work ethic. And that I’d timed my departure to end up a few car lengths behind him. Or her.

Didn’t work out that way, and at the last minute, I lost my courage and decided on an alternate route that would bypass the dreaded and steep Dry Creek hill I happily traverse in warmer, more civilized weather. The view from the top is rurally remarkable—all rolling pastures and horses grazing and the sun gilding it all like God’s front yard. The northern approach goes past a cemetery (mildly unsettling in any weather) and drops down quickly with a slight curve at the bottom, then flat for a brief stretch across the creek and back up at a steep pitch. If you’re behind a truck of any size or build, try not to follow too closely. But it’s gorgeous anyway. As the mid-way point between home and work, it gives a welcome boost at the start of the day, and a contented exhale on the way back.

I turned onto the presumably safer road feeling a bit more emboldened and rather strategic, until I remembered the hairpin curve at the bottom of a slightly less steep but still intimidating hill that swept past a Texas Longhorn steer farm. I could only hope they were safe and asleep in one of the barns, as I’d hate to land among them in the pasture when the truck went airborne despite my best efforts to stay between the yellow lines. That lovely thought helped me white-knuckle my way slowly down the hill at almost 25mph, gently pumping the breaks and bracing for the sharp turn ahead. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fluff its way down and I tried hard to see its beauty in the reassuring glow of my headlights. Whoever was driving behind me was patient and thankfully not aggressive. This breakfast meeting better have mimosas. Another helpful thought. I made it to the office with only a few more adrenaline moments and maneuvers.

I’ve been fortunate to have only driving-through-snow-and-ice success stories since we moved here. It’s part skill, part excellent vehicle choices (trucks with 4-wheel drive are essential for my peace of mind) and considerable amounts of luck and timing. But there’s an uneasiness that roils just below the surface of our romantic appreciation for a winter landscape, and it keeps us both sharp and humble. Sometimes, it’s a triumph just to make it safely across the porch and into the truck.

What any of that has to do with only having one chicken left is a connection I’ll let you make on your own. But I sure did envy her temporary captivity Friday morning.

Spring, are you listening?

Improvements

I can’t remember if I read it somewhere or if someone told me, but eating salad with chopsticks is much better than using a fork. No matter how big or small the greens are, or the add-ins, it’s a more consistent and satisfying means of delivering the goods to your mouth. I hope you’ll try it.

My afternoons at work are better since I’ve added a mug of green tea topped with a stroopwafel to the agenda. Anything that happens after that feels more elegant and purposeful. I can’t explain it, but then, no one has asked me to.

Water and going outside will fix just about any condition or annoyance. And these two options are so customizable. You can stick your head out the car window at a red light like a dog, step onto your front porch with your morning beverage and greet the day. Or…drinking water, dipping your toes or your entire self in water, listening to water cascade softly off the hard concrete of a mossy fountain, standing on the sand as the waves come at you so rhythmically. Those last two put them both together almost effortlessly (see what I did there?). But if only one is available, really make it work for you. Bend your head back and get that last drop, drink that tumbler dry, take off your socks and feel that cool grass or hard soil right there on your skin. Let the wind rearrange your hair despite the gel or mousse you applied in your morning ablutions. Spreading your arms out as wide as you can adds drama. You’ll feel better.

Putting out cloth napkins at an informal gathering of good people is part eco-consciousness and part sociological study, which, when combined, add an element of rarefied sophistication to a party where folks are willing to learn more about each other. Some of our guests are hesitant to use them, afraid they’ll get them dirty with rich red tomato-y pasta sauce or hummus that strayed ever so slightly from the target, and will ask for a paper towel. We cheerfully reassure them that the chintz pattern on one or the dancing bees on another are sturdy enough to mop up faces and survive an extra spin cycle in the washer. Judging by their surprised smiles, you would think we’d given them a strip of scratch-off lottery tickets. Delightful.

If you need a nap, try to do it within earshot of a warbler or a mockingbird.

That feeling of resentment toward someone that sits all heavy and muddy in your gut? That you just can’t shake or transform or dissolve? See above suggestion to go outside or do something that involves water. For at least those few moments, your senses will be taken up with the coolness of liquid on the back of your throat or the expanse of sky miles above your head (gray and cloudy or blue and endless makes no difference) and you won’t have spent another second snagged on the razor wire of contempt. Then, come back, notice the heaviness of resentment unreleased, and forgive yourself for being in the middle of your own movie. Self-compassion clears the way for compassion towards others. Toward anyone. Oh, and it’s a practice, not a one-and-done event. Let that sink in a bit.

Carry-out pizza on a Tuesday night, when your workday was pleasant and manageable and without drama, gives a rise to the week even before hump day shows it’s hump. Carry-out pizza on a Tuesday and a Friday in the same week is pure decadence, after which you may need a cigarette and some time in the confessional. Make it worth it—get extra cheese.

We almost always do better when we talk to people instead of about them. Especially those folks we see every day, need to get along with in the workplace, or sit next to at Thanksgiving.

In the middle of an argument or an intense discussion with someone you love deeply, reach for her hand and make contact. Though I don’t know the nature of your loving relationships, it’s unlikely such a move will lead to violence. In fact, the evidence shows the opposite—it’ll calm things down, provide a gentle and tactile reminder that you’re both on each other’s side, underneath all that present-moment contrariness.

At least once in your life, be responsible for another living creature that doesn’t speak your language, move about the way you do, or have a paying job.

Even one houseplant, nothing fussy or high maintenance, can make the most cluttered or sparse room feel less so. If it’s still alive after seven weeks, get a second one.

When faced with overwhelming, confusing, expensive, inconvenient, troublesome, and even urgent choices, remember: doing nothing is still an option.

There. Isn’t that better?

Little Things

A wasp has joined me at my perch on the couch this morning, its onion-skin wings folded tightly and in perfect alignment with the rest of its sharp and angular little 1” body. It meanders across the brown arm of the sofa, changing direction, doubling back, nearing the edge and retreating. Almost the same color as the pretend leather fabric, I wouldn’t know it was there save for catching its jerky walk on its spindly legs in my peripheral vision. The kittens are fixed in fascination from their spot below on the carpet, their yellow eyes following its every slow and painstaking move to some unknown destination.

I’m paying close attention as well, having administered in the past my share of baking soda poultices to soothe stings that neither of us had planned (looking back, I’m sure it was my fault and not the wasp’s). I’m not going to kill it. I just want to keep it in sight. They’re less aggressive in the winter, and when they do make an appearance in some room of the house, they resemble a hungover party guest trying to figure our where he put his socks and his car keys. We’ve all been there, so we don’t make a scene; we just work our daily comings and goings around them, and keep a careful eye on where they wander off to next. As I look past this one through the living room windows and into the snowy landscape on the ridge, I don’t begrudge him his decision to tuck in somewhere warm. I return my eyes to the arm of the sofa, and he’s gone. Well. Ok. Shake out the lap throws and turn over the pillows. And walk carefully across the multi-colored boho patchwork area rug that’s a perfect hideout for anything brown with legs.

We never know who our roommates are in this old and crevice-filled abode. Mostly, they remain unseen and silent, especially the insects. We have a rather unsettling fondness for our spiders; they keep the fly and no-see-um population in perfect check, so it seems unwise to evict or execute them simply because their many legs and small size put others off a bit. They work hard for a living and teach us daily that patience is essential for survival. But to put a houseguest at ease, we will employ the cup-and-index-card evacuation tactic so that the rest of the visit can unfold in peace. We don’t judge, just accommodate.

But these little lives that intersect with ours are precious to us, even when the sight of them in swarms or many-legged gangs make our skin crawl. We’re awed at their organized communities. We watch as they gather food, survive the sub-zero winters, care for their offspring, perform the tiniest of mating dances and sometimes simply buzz about our heads for no apparent reason. I remember one afternoon in May when Patrick and I were outside on the grass, stripping cedar branches of their needles to dry and use in ceremony, when a flock of dragonflies (“swarm” just isn’t the right word here, though it is probably the more entomologically correct one. Allow me a bit of poetic license here) zigged and zagged inches from our ball-capped heads. We could hear them, there were that many that close by. Draw whatever conclusions you wish on the spiritual meaning of this encounter. We were charmed and delighted right down to our skivvies and now look for them each spring, with or without the scent of fresh cedar on our fingertips.

I get why most folks cringe or look for the nearest shoe to use as a weapon when dealing with all manner of creeping and crawling things. They’re small, they can get into places we’d rather not have them (the classic “they’ll find their way up my trouser leg” fear), and once they’re in there, bite things we’d rather they didn’t bite. Plus, when they reproduce they do so with seeming teeming reckless abandon. Clearly no one in insect circles teaches abstinence or any form of birth control. Have you ever seen those moving columns of gnats or mosquitoes just suspended in mid-air when you’re out for your morning walk? We’re outnumbered and always have been. Entomophobia seems a healthy fear to allow, if not actually nurture, in our two-legged nuclear family species.

But one five-minute segment of the evening news is all I need to put spiders in perspective. If I’m gonna work up the energy to fly off the couch in a panic, it will be about the Big Scary Things, too large to go unnoticed, too big to crawl up a trouser leg and catch me unawares, too heavy to scoop up in a glass and relocate in the hydrangeas outside. And I’ve lived through Big Scary Things, so I’m not romanticizing the contrast here. Tiny living things demand our attention in a different way, inviting our observant eye to notice how they manage in a world so much bigger than they are. They take their place on a vast food chain beyond their control, hunker down and get about their buggy business without complaint. And in large numbers, they command our respect, sometimes from a safe distance, lest we think we were here first. We’re bigger, sure, but not always better. It’s good to remember that every now and again.

If humility I must learn, give me a wasp on the arm of a sofa any day.

Lost and Found

What began as a snowfall so light, I could count each flake coming down, has turned into a horizontal straight line wind show outside the south-facing guest room window, snowflakes on the ride of their little fluffy lives. I can almost hear a collective “Wheeeeeee!!!” as they zip on by. I admire their free spirits.

We decided not to set up at the Market yesterday. An after-midnight midnight snow squall turned into freezing rain and sleet, slicking up the roads nicely right around the time we would have had to leave. In milder weather, we can make the trip in about 40 minutes. But in the dark, with landmine patches of black ice waiting menacingly to catch our tires and send us off into some sleeping cornfield, we might have arrived about thirty minutes before closing, after being discharged from the ER. It seemed the wiser choice to spare our bones and leave them sleeping safely between warm layers of blankets and promises of next week’s Market.

Of course, I’d packed the truck at 5:30, before we made the call, and as a dark sky lightened to grey, I didn’t relish the idea of unpacking totes and glass sample jars across a slippery front deck. It was supposed to warm slightly by mid-morning, but we were miles from that at 6:45. The branches and delicate fingers of each mulberry tree were sheathed in ice and clacked softly against each other as the wind pushed them around. Behind them, a taller yellow maple swayed heavily, its topmost branches touching the blue spruce nearby in a tender arboreal act of reassurance. There there…it’s almost over.

At last week’s market, as we were packing up, I must have caught the snap closure to a cherished bracelet on something because when I pushed back the cuff of my coat sleeve reaching into my purse for a mint, my wrist was bare. My heart sank and I retraced my steps from the truck back through the mall where the indoor market is held, past the shops to the area where our booth stood. Nothing. I looked through the totes that held our different granola flavors, the blue and yellow IKEA bags that carry our supplies, the capped back of the truck, shoving aside the folding tables and the wheeled hand truck. Still nothing. Crestfallen, I climbed back into the driver’s seat and slumped my way through the trip home.

It’s a humble leather band with a riveted metal strip on which is stamped “Life is about creating yourself”. I smiled as I plucked it off the rack at a little shop on Tybee Island back in 2016, slid my debit card into the chip-reader and made it mine from that moment forward. Having pushed through to the other side of a dark, dark time in my life (another story for another post), this small bit of wrist-wisdom was now a talisman, a reminder that the path ahead was mine to shape. I peeled off the price tag, snapped the ends together (it fit my tiny wrist as if custom-made while I waited), and headed off with Patrick to buy shrimp by the pound.

I’ve lost this bracelet more than once. Over time, the snap has become looser, and when the cuffs of my shirts move up and down in the normal course of the day’s activity, it’s just enough pressure to push the two ends of the strap apart. I’ve found it up my sleeve near the elbow, at the bottom of my purse, on the floor mat of the truck, tucked down in between the driver’s seat and the console. Each time, there’s been that heart-sinking feeling of “gone forever” followed by sheer delight at our joyous reunion, and whispered promises to be more careful. I’ve chosen not to wear it certain places (festivals and other one-day events) knowing that the chance of finding it again if I lost it there would be nonexistent.

But I do keep wearing it, and sometimes lose it, and it keeps coming back. I wholeheartedly embrace the irrational and magical thinking that this tiny bit of more-than-a-piece-of-jewelry is exactly that. It’s a teacher. A muse. Some conduit between me and the lesson to which I must cling as if my very existence depends on it: Life is about our willingness to be made new more than once. To be lost and found over and over, wrapping our arms around the despair and the triumph with equal passion and pulling them close, dancing on the line between the familiar and the uncomfortable, and trusting that both will carve out even deeper places in our beings for love to take root. Isn’t that why we’re even here at all? A bracelet and I say yes.

In the dark and icy moments of an uncertain market morning, I reached into the one place I hadn’t searched—one of those reusable six-sectioned totes that you get from Kroger when you buy more then one bottle of wine, which we use to carry the mason jars of our granola samples. There, underneath Nate’s Blueberry Almond made with certified gluten-free oats, my little leather-and-stamped-metal strap of encouragement lay waiting patiently for the student to re-appear.

It’s always the last place you look.

(Editor’s note: I bought the leather-bound journal in the photo that accompanies this post at a lovely shop, Old Mr. Bailiwick’s, just off the square in Mt Vernon, Ohio. Josh and Becky specialize in plant-based remedies, tonics, adaptogens and other resources to help keep a body whole and healthy. So, of course they carry journals. I highly recommend their products and wisdom.)