Wet chickens

Our elder chickens are forsaking their new home for nights spent under the stars. This has been working out all right when they are actually stars overhead, but when it rains, we have a problem. I discovered this one rainy morning when I went out to feed them and found that one of them slept outside by the feed bin. It was too cold and wet to even squawk when I picked it up, but I took it to the brooder with an almost equally wet buddy and placed them both in a box under the heat lamp. They napped in the warmth until they felt better. By the time everything was settled down, the insides of my rubber boots were so filled with rain that I made a little splash with every step. The next evening, all the chickens bedded down by their feeders outside, and I saw lightning in the West, so I carried them all into their shelter. It was a dramatic time to be outside, trying to beat an approaching storm. If I had been doing something other than carrying around a bunch of sleepy chickens, I would have felt quite archetypal and heroic.

The little yellow chicks are growing up and sprouting little white feathers on their wings. One chick has a few black feathers on its shoulder. I have inspected these several times to be sure they look healthy, and they do. The poor chick is almost getting used to being lifted and fingered. This evening, it peeped tragically at first, then calmed down so much that it actually caught a mosquito in mid air while I held it.

We have decided that we cannot keep the ducks over the winter, and we will likely butcher them within a couple weeks. Our decision made my daughter cry. We are hoping to raise more ducks next year, when we have spent some time planning how we will take care of them. I will miss them. I had no idea they were so fun.

At the restaurant

I have sometimes looked at the Beatitudes as if it were the menu of a restaurant. I have considered all the different options that are being offered, such as being comforted, or inheriting the earth. Then, I have looked at the price of all these things, and wondered which would be the easiest for me to swing. I have almost dismissed some options because they are too expensive. For example, inheriting the kingdom of heaven sounds great, but I am not sure if I really have what it takes to be poor in spirit.

Time and time again, I scan the options and decide I want to see God. To do that, you have to have a clean heart, which sounds like a pretty tall order, and I am not completely sure what it means to have a “clean heart.” Still, I might barely be able to manage it after a lifetime of grace and determined work. I have placed my order repeatedly with God, as if God were the only waitress on duty at a packed restaurant with notoriously slow service.

Today I got an appetizer I did not order. It is just a little plastic basket with a few onion rings in it, but really, that is all I can handle right now. Today, I understood that I see God now in the sky, in the soil, the plants and animals and the people around me. It is something I do already, occasionally, and dimly, when my heart is translucent enough for the Light to enter it.

I am not going to change my order. I still want to see God, more frequently and more clearly – maybe all the time. I am going to keep sitting at my table, nibbling at these amazing onion rings, and watching the other people eat or wait for their food. I will know the condition of my heart by how much I’m able to see in the faces around me.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
(Matthew 3-10)

corn

The corn that our neighbor planted on our land has grown so tall that we cannot see the land that dips down west of our property, where the sun sets. Instead, when we stand beside the old lilac bushes, by the huge rocks that must’ve been the foundation of a barn, we look west into a green wall that is much taller than we are. I have stood in the corn with my arms stretched up to the sky, and beside me, the corn stalks stretch taller than my fingers. My narrow, reaching arms seem to imitate the plants around me.

A couple of days ago, when some cousins came by for a visit, my children wanted to show them the wild cherry tree that grows on the south border of our property. We had to walk between two rows of corn to get there, with the wide slightly furry leaves rasping against our faces. I almost felt I had to hold my breath, and that our walk would never end, but of course it did. We admired the tight green fruits on the cherry tree, then turned back to press single file through the corn again. A baby, who made the trip in his mother’s arms, cuddled his face into his mother’s shoulder to hide it from the reaching leaves. The baby’s father called out, “it smells like corn!” I had not noticed the sweet smell because I had been so absorbed by the feeling of the leaves against me.

My daughter likes to play in the corn, but only for a little bit, if I am outside and not far away. She and my son have found rooms in the field, where no corn grew, and where they are surrounded by walls of green. They have given the rooms names such as “14 through 17” based on the number of rows they must cross before they reach the rooms. I am glad that my children play in the corn, and I am glad that they never play very long there.

Celebrities

We picked up a new batch of chicks at the post office, and I felt like a celebrity. The elderly gentleman behind me in line exclaimed, “I haven’t seen that in years! We used to get our chickens off the train.” He smiled, then stood with his mouth agape. The woman behind him in line said, with a tone of authority, “Yes, more and more people are getting chickens now. I read about it.” She had apparently considered keeping them herself, and we stood out in the parking lot discussing hatcheries. While settling the box of chicks on top of my children’s laps in the truck, another car pulled up beside us, and its driver greeted us with enthusiasm usually reserved for old friends. He said he had kept chickens once, and took a peek at our fluffy birds before I excused myself, saying the baby chicks needed to go home and drink water.

To make room for the new chicks, the big chickens have moved into new digs. Our more mature birds are living out in what looks like the top of a covered wagon. The advantages of this are that we don’t have to rush to put them inside at twilight to keep them safe from predators, because an electric fence, which surrounds their yard, keeps them safe. They don’t have to wait for us to let them out in the morning either. They can go right out at the crack of dawn and start browsing for food, while we are still in bed.

Evening light

Because of the chickens, I am aware of the evening light. There is a certain time in the evening, when the shadows are long and stillness settles over the fields. The chickens appreciate this, and they all go outside to peck their feed or browse through the grass like discriminating customers at an upscale grocery store. Slowly, the light fades, and the some hop inside their coop, then more join them. When the light is so dim that I am certain predators must be out and about, then two or three chickens are typically hanging around outside as if they don’t want the evening to end. On these nights, I endlessly say “Go to bed!” first to my children, and then to my birds. It is like the chorus for the long, lovely summer twilight. At some magic point in the evening, an unseen balance tips, and all the chickens go inside. I’ve been trying to tend to them immediately after this happens, and so I have been watching the light carefully.

I went to a family reunion for three nights in northwestern Minnesota while my husband took care of the birds, and when I came home it seemed as though the ducklings had grown up it turned into ducks. During my absence, they also took the following my husband around in the evening before he gives them food. He strides purposefully through the yard followed at a little distance by waddling ducks, which also have a very purposeful air about them. He says he feels a little bit like a mother duck.

As the daughter of two actors, I often see the world through the lens of theater. In the morning, when I let the young chickens out of their shelter, I feel as though I am watching a show-stopping song and dance number. The space in front of me erupts with sound, color and movement as all the chicks run through the greenery as fast as their little legs can carry them. Their little bodies shift from side to side with every step, and their wings sometimes flap for emphasis as the ensemble traces patterns of white through the green clover. They all gather into perfect lines, facing each other, with their feed troughs between them, and they keep singing as they wait for me to deliver their food. I’m never sure whether to applaud or start singing myself. Usually I don’t do either, but I consider it as I scoop their grain into their troughs.

We lost a couple of ducks to predators during the last week, which was hard. Each time, we made changes to their pen, and I think they will be safe at night now. I was talking about my ducks with someone at a Fourth of July party, and she knew just how I felt about them. “Ducks have heart,” she said with a knowing nod. We fill up a couple of the children’s sleds with water so they have a place to splash. They curve their necks and dip gracefully so that the water falls down on their backs, and then they wiggle their tails with what looks like delight. They make those old plastic sleds look almost elegant. Clearly, we are going to have to look into the possibility of selling duck eggs.