Come and see the soul of a tulip, shouting out at us to live our lives, be fulfilled, to not waste time in worrying and whining. To tell our stories, as often as we can, as loud as we can, in any way we can.
Every morning, rain or shine, Maria and the donkeys have a meeting while I hover around with my camera. I always try and imagine the agenda. Simon is complaining about his sore legs, and inquiring about more of the pasta he loves. Lulu is complaining about Simon chasing after her when she is heat, and also about the foxes we are permitting to live right above the farm. She thinks it is foolish. Fanny wants more attention. She complains that Simon is an attention-hog getting more time and exposure than she is, even though she came before Simon or Lulu.
All of the donkeys are thrilled that the grass is so green and lush. When, asks Lulu, are those sheep coming? I hope Jon isn’t thinking of getting another crazy border collie. I will be honest with you, says Maria. She says Izzy is sick.
More brushing, she says. More quality time. Simon wonders what happened to Meg, and why there are no chickens riding around on his back anymore. Maria gives him the sad news. He feels bad. She was pretty nice for a chicken, he says, but then, you know how they are. Then, Maria says, time for brushing. I have to get to work. You guys looked wretched. Good grazing, now that the grass is up. See you in the afternoon.
When I first saw Izzy, he was running in circles around a fence in the farm field where he had lived mostly outside for some years. His coat was covered in burrs, bits of feces, brush and twigs. He was a wild creature, and it took us two days just to catch him. On the way to the farm, he vomited and spewed diarrhea all over the car, and I realized he had never been in a car. When we got home, I took him on a leash and brought him out to see the donkeys and the sheep. He flipped out, pulled the leash out of my hand and took off up the hill and into the woods.
I called Rose, jumped in the truck and took off after him. I caught up with him four or five miles away on Bunker Hill Road just above Cossayuna. He was running like a greyhound, strong and very fast. I pulled ahead of him and pulled over across the road – just like they do in the movies – and Rose jumped out of the window just as Izzy came rocketing up to us. Rose looked at me, confused, wanting directions. “Get the sheep!” I yelled, pointing at Izzy. That was all she needed to hear. She took off after Izzy as he came rushing past, grabbed onto his tail, and hung on for dear life. Izzy, startled, suddenly carrying the 50 pound weight of this tenacious creature, turned, and stopped. I got to him and grabbed him. We all came back in the truck, everybody panting and gasping for breath. Izzy never ran off again.
Over the next few weeks he nearly destroyed my life. He dug holes under fences, jumped over them, dismantled three metal crates, ate the paneling off the living room walls, dumped all over the house. I was about ready to give him up when my vet Jeff Meyers examined him and turned to me, and said, “you need to keep Izzy. He will be a great dog for you.” So it was.
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There is no news to report on Izzy. He is tired, resting, eating, walking. We are taking tests, and waiting on them.
Fran is the first one out of the barn every morning, hanging out with the other hens, sometimes going of by herself. What is the life of a chicken, really? Up to us, I think. I can think about what I have, or what I don’t have. I can choose sadness over gratitude, hope over despair. Is life fair? Ask Fran, nearly starved by a farmer, almost eaten alive by a fox, almost pecked to death by her fellow hens. There she is, out there pecking bugs in the sunshine. My choice, really, how I want to look at life.
Is life fair? Life is life.
In my life, almost every day, there is every emotion. Love. Joy. Sadness. Hope. Excitement. Expectation of the Infinite Dawn. I give thanks for each one. Is life fair?, a friend asked me this morning. Life does not need to be fair. We have no right to expect anything from it, only from ourselves. I love the different feelings moving through me. It tells me I am here, I am alive, I am living my life. There are small miracles and tragedies, and successes and disappointments. Fran walking around. Chicken and fox notecards. Walking with Izzy on the path at dawn. Seeing Maria brush our donkeys. Looking forward to taking photos with George Forss this afternoon. Working on my books. Taking my photos. Paying my bills. That is the dance, and I am grateful every minute to be in it. This morning, I got some photos of emotion. I’ll put them up here, and on my Facebook Page.
We are conditioned, I think, to judge life only by the happiness it brings, but I have learned not to do that. A good life is not a life free of loss and sorrow, not a perfect life. It is a rich life a full life, that challenges me to grow and embrace every emotion, every experience and give thanks for each one. Each one – grief, love, happiness – is sacred to me. I do not feel sorry for myself, or for my life. Life is a cycle, the richest river that there is.
