a lesson

One of our ducklings taught me a lesson with its last moments of life.

On Saturday morning, my daughter went out to care for the birds, accompanied by her dear friend who had spent the night. They came in, wide-eyed, to report that one of the ducklings was bloody and its wing was shaking. As I finished up my work inside, they went out again to assess the situation, and they found several holes in the ground next to the shelter. Apparently a predator dug its way into the ducklings’ shelter during the night. “The duckling is dying,” my daughter told me steadily. “Its whole side is covered in blood.”

At this point, it felt very important for me to get dressed and braid my hair as I prepared to euthanize the little duck. It took a long time to get myself ready, find the combination for the padlock, unlock the gun, and make all the necessary preparations. I slowly completed this intricate and measured process, then went outside.

The injured duck was resting in a little group with the other duckling. Even though it was dying, its eyes were bright, and it held up head with grace and interest. We carried it away from the rest of the ducklings and set it under a tree. Then the bullets jammed in the gun, and we had to put everything on hold while my friend teased them all out with a screwdriver. Finally, we returned to the duck waiting under the tree. Just before we ended its life, a fly buzzed near its face, probably attracted by the bird’s wound. The duckling brightened and snapped at the fly with such passion and vitality that I almost felt a twinge of envy. I am carrying this image in my heart, where it has radiance and weight. The memory will teach me more when the time is right.

loudmouth

One of our chicks has a very loud peep. We first noticed that when we were driving the little flock home from the post office. As the car rolled over some railroad tracks, one chick’s voice rose from the little cardboard box of birds with shrill authority and volume. He has not lost his touch. When I am feeding them or stirring up their bedding, I am always startled by his strident voice, which seems as though it were announcing an emergency. I study the little group of chicks, expecting that one of them is being squashed by something, but this is never the case. It is just our loudmouth expressing himself.

The chicks are still balls of yellow fluff, but they are growing feathers on their wings. These birds are earthy types that are not destined for flying. When they are still so small and light, they and they flutter a little bit on their new wing feathers, flight seems almost within reach.

The ducks are amazing. They march around in a fluffy yellow herd, deciding their direction collectively. They are so vital that they vibrate as they forage for food in their little grassy yard. Soon they will be moving out of the brooder.

Hearing the fields

For as long as I can remember, when I smelled the scent of grass or rain on the wind, I was overcome with longing to return to a home that had never been mine, “It almost smells like I am home” I found myself thinking. “I can almost feel myself surrounded by fields.” I puzzled over this for years, wondering if I might be longing for my childhood home, which was on the fringe of the suburbs, or for the dairy farm where I worked as a teenager. Neither of those answers brought me peace. I wondered if it was possible to inherit memories and longings from family, the way we inherit mannerisms and temperament. Maybe I was wishing for the home of my grandmother, my namesake, who died when my mother was still a child. I expect that I will never know.

Even though I could make no rational sense of it, I experienced searing beauty followed by loss almost every day. It was a heavy weight to carry. For a while, I tried to stop hearing the power of the sky and the growing things around me because I did not want the grief that followed my awareness. For a while, I stopped praying because in my prayers, I would also see the fields and then fall into sadness.

Now that I have lived in the country for a year, I still don’t know how to respond to the wild power that comes to me in the smell of grass, or to the fields that I see in my prayers. They don’t bring me grief anymore though, only uncertainty and joy.

The other night, I was trying to pray for a friend of mine who is in trouble, and in Quaker fashion, I started out in silent worship, waiting for an awareness of Christ’s love and peace. Instead of hearing God, I heard the fields to the south of my house. They were a riot of growth, covered over with the peace that accompanies most green, growing things. Expansiveness called the fields up towards the darkening sky, and the soil beneath them was alive with tiny movements.

I finally had to give up on praying for my friend and just go outside. Once I was standing in the grass, accompanied by trees, I tried again to pray. This time, I stomped my feet on the ground and sang, and let my arms go where they felt like going. Finally then, I felt the peace of Christ. I prayed for my friend, still shouting and dancing. When I was done, I stood alone in my isolated yard and had the sense that I was being watched by women. I had the sense that they were pleased.

Ethereal

“Ethereal chicken” is almost always an oxymoron, like “plastic silverware.” For just a day or two though, when they are tiny and completely covered in golden down, chicks can be ethereal. Our new birds are in this brief phase of their lives. When they stand under the red light of their heat lamp, they almost glow. Watching them, I remember the lightness of their little bodies as we lifted them out of the boxes on Thursday. They could almost be like little wisps of air, except their tiny little feet make the quickest little pattering sound as they dart around the brooder.

My mother-in-law helped me construct a cardboard wall across part of the brooder so that we could have a separate “room” for ducklings. The ducklings came on Thursday, the day after the chickens, and we have been amazed by them. Picking them up is a completely different experience then picking up the ethereal little chicks. The ducklings are more substantial, with a long neck, active feet, and a bit of softness cushioning their belly. Ian described them best when he called them “purposeful.” They seem driven in their pursuit of any bug that has the misfortune to wander into their part of the brooder.

Up and down

Wednesday night, for the first time since I hurt my finger, Ian said to me, “Let’s go for a walk after the children are in bed.” As we usually do, we strolled towards the western edge of our lawn, through the trees that form a shelter belt around our house, and we stood looking out over the cornfields. He loaned me his jacket because I was shivering.

After we admired the wispy clouds and the gentle rolling land, we each chose an aisle between the rows of corn, and we walked south, followed by one of our cats who also liked the idea of a companionable evening walk. I looked over at Ian and the fields behind him, and it seemed like a scene that I would see longingly while my eyes were closed in worship. I had the mildly uneasy sense that maybe I was just worshiping or dreaming. The image of Ian walking beside me like that is stamped in my heart, with colors that are almost too bright.

We circled around our garden and headed back for the house. “It is good to have you back,” Ian told me.


Thursday night I was feeling woozy again, and I lay on the couch, unable to shake the feeling that the space around my body was blinking with colors. The colors were too bright, and they were blinking too fast. I was afraid to open my eyes and look out the window at the treetops swaying in the wind, because I was afraid that they would feel menacing. I made myself look at the treetops anyway, and it was almost painfully intense to see the blinking lights as the leaves shifted front of the cloudy sky. Nothing looked menacing though, and I forced myself to keep looking. The longer I looked, the more peaceful the trees seemed.


Today, I drove to the post office to pick up 15 ducklings in a box and bring them home to our brooder. I felt spacey and disconnected with my body as I drove the car home with the ducklings peeping beside me, and I worried that I might not be the best driver. “You are in the fields,” I reminded myself, and in my peripheral vision, I could see the wide spaces of green, hemmed in sometimes with trees. I relaxed instantly. It is a feeling that I remember from early childhood, when the presence of my mother made the world safe and right.

It has been a quiet week

I had no idea that smashing my finger would be such a big deal. I had surgery on the finger on Wednesday, and the doctor said it went well. I am also on antibiotics as I had a fever and the doctors were worried that infection would get into the broken bone. Before I took the antibiotics, I started drifting into mild visions, which cleared up once I got on the medication. I am aware of several mystics who had their major visions while being seriously ill, but I skipped that opportunity.

“Good Lord! Of course you did!” my mother exclaims from her permanent seat in my imagination.

I am also taking pain medication. At first, I was very conservative about taking those pills, but I am now downing one every four hours on the dot. Perhaps this is why my books about farming seem especially exciting. Yesterday, I was giddy with delight as I read a rather academic chapter about the parts of flowers. “Growing Fruit in the Upper Midwest” is a must-read for anyone taking narcotics.

I have spent most of the last week in bed, and I am very grateful for friends and family who have been taking care of me and my kids.