Since I have gotten chickens again, I feel invited to be out in the yard, As I tear out a couple of years worth of black raspberries, horsetail, grapes, invasive roses, autumn olive and pretty much every other weed that is happy to choke out the things I selected to plant over the years, I think of the saying many hands make light work. In this case, it is many beaks. The chickens follow me around cheerfully, carefully examining everything I pull up and call to each other as they find things of interest; grapes, chickweed, fallen apples, peaches that are worthless to anyone but chickens and of course, bugs.
Chickens are carnivores, so getting "grain fed" chicken or chickens who are layers but don't ever get to forage means less healthy chickens. The eggs my girls donate are the best I have ever known. The shells are hard. The inner membrane doesn't break easily. The yolks are a rich yellow/orange, the whites hold together- the consistency of jellyfish.
It comforts me to have them follow me around, asking questions, offering opinions, gossiping about the cat, and probably me, but never by name, because they don't want to hurt my feelings.
It is good to come home and have someone happy to see me, as the chickens always are. If I'm not careful they will go for walks with me, which, considering the predator level around here might not be such a great idea.
When I go across the road to do anything, they look up from flipping leaves and offering opinions on the quality of caterpillar, and run over to where I am, surround me and look up expectantly. "got any grapes?''
Sometimes, they consent to being picked up and put on my shoulder, where they can fly down to the ground again. I know they consent because after they land they come back for a second time, like a child being asked to be tossed into the air again. And again....
It is an act of hope to have a garden in times as uncertain and perilous as these. Ripping out the snarly invasion of plants that like the soil the way it is, I hold a vision of another year. I expect the world to still be a place where a garden is a possibility, where the woods will be lively enough that I will be hanging old cd's on strings, scrounging materials for a greenhouse and selecting seeds over the winter. It means I am seeing a life connected to life, honoring death, decay failure; blossoming, fruiting and maybe seeding if I can get seeds that Monsanto has not messed with. It means I believe my chickens will make it through a winter here and not all get carried off by someone with hungry babies to feed.
The Buddhists say that hope is a trick like regret.
Though they dance together, only one of them can fly.
Chickens are carnivores, so getting "grain fed" chicken or chickens who are layers but don't ever get to forage means less healthy chickens. The eggs my girls donate are the best I have ever known. The shells are hard. The inner membrane doesn't break easily. The yolks are a rich yellow/orange, the whites hold together- the consistency of jellyfish.
It comforts me to have them follow me around, asking questions, offering opinions, gossiping about the cat, and probably me, but never by name, because they don't want to hurt my feelings.
It is good to come home and have someone happy to see me, as the chickens always are. If I'm not careful they will go for walks with me, which, considering the predator level around here might not be such a great idea.
When I go across the road to do anything, they look up from flipping leaves and offering opinions on the quality of caterpillar, and run over to where I am, surround me and look up expectantly. "got any grapes?''
Sometimes, they consent to being picked up and put on my shoulder, where they can fly down to the ground again. I know they consent because after they land they come back for a second time, like a child being asked to be tossed into the air again. And again....
It is an act of hope to have a garden in times as uncertain and perilous as these. Ripping out the snarly invasion of plants that like the soil the way it is, I hold a vision of another year. I expect the world to still be a place where a garden is a possibility, where the woods will be lively enough that I will be hanging old cd's on strings, scrounging materials for a greenhouse and selecting seeds over the winter. It means I am seeing a life connected to life, honoring death, decay failure; blossoming, fruiting and maybe seeding if I can get seeds that Monsanto has not messed with. It means I believe my chickens will make it through a winter here and not all get carried off by someone with hungry babies to feed.
The Buddhists say that hope is a trick like regret.
Though they dance together, only one of them can fly.
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