Spring Chickens

Earlier this winter, my girls were in trouble. When their combs faded from their usual red to a sickly pinkish-gray, I blamed the weather. It’s been a cold winter…much colder than usual…and two of my chickens are South American. I did what I could to winterize the henhouse, taking solace in the fact that their appetites were good. A couple of days later though, I found Pat, the “mother hen”, parading around naked from the wings down. Something was very wrong.

An internet search suggested mites or lice or some other microscopic vermin had invaded the henhouse. Several chemicals I couldn’t pronounce, much less afford, were suggested as treatment. I thought about the shaker can of Sevin dust sitting on a shelf in my utility room. When I was a kid, my mother used it to treat our dogs for fleas and they all turned out okay. It was worth a shot.

For the next two weeks I “winged it”. I dusted their roosts, the floor of their house and, despite their best efforts to the contrary, under their wings. Fortunately, Pat’s feathers seemed to reappear overnight, as temperatures at that time hovered around zero. Other than that, though, I saw little change. Their combs remained colorless.

Worrying would do no good. I resigned myself to the fact that I had done the best I could do, imagined for just a moment how distasteful the whole burying-a-dead-chicken-thing could be, and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might have been listening.

My dogs woke me early this morning. It wasn’t even seven am. Just a few minutes into our usual coffee/cuddle time, I realized the sky was brightening. The sun looked warm but I wasn’t fooled. I pulled my ugly, orange “chicken” coat on over my robe and set out towards the henhouse. As is their custom, all three dogs accompanied me to the gate before breaking off to chase each other around the perimeter of the fence, wreaking havoc with the azaleas.

As I approached the henhouse, I was greeted by the “thud”, “thud”, “thud” of chickens jumping from roost to floor in anticipation of my visit. A widening arc of light preceded me into the space, revealing a flurry of feathers moving chaotically in front of the door. The girls were eager to be outdoors. I followed them out and dumped a scoop of scratch over the side of their pen. Soon all four heads were bobbing in stereotypical fashion. And, that’s when I saw it. All four combs were red. No, not just red. They were a brilliant red, a gorgeous red, a healthy and happy red.

Filled with relief, I went back inside to clean house while they finished breakfast. As I reached down to grab a handful of straw, the ever-brightening morning light revealed an egg in a corner of the nesting box. It’s pale, pinkish-brown color told me it was courtesy of Pat. Only healthy hens lay eggs. Pat was going to be okay.

This morning, for the first time since November, I ate an egg that was in a chicken in my backyard yesterday. Forget that silly old groundhog. My girls tell me Spring is just around the corner!

“Worry Beads”

As a civil engineer working with a large real estate firm, my father was part of the boom that built Atlanta during the 1960’s. It was in this way we came to know the Kwechs, a family of Chicagoan transplants. They talked funny, slathered both sides of their sandwiches with butter instead of mayonnaise, and ate pickled fruit. They were also Catholic, which was my mother’s way of explaining Mrs. Kwech’s habit of pinning a handkerchief into her hair before entering a church.

As we sat down to a Thanksgiving dinner featuring butter molded into the shape of a lamb alongside pickled peaches, all five Kwechs made a mysterious hand-motion after “the blessing”. Fascinated, I studied the motion and practiced it; thinking it “neat”, until my mother reprimanded me. This was the first time I heard the word “sacrilegious”.

Of course, my mother’s horror only served to accentuate the exotic nature of this mysterious faith. Obviously, the Catholic Church was much more holy than the garden-variety, Southern Methodist church I’d been brought up in.

I am a Jack-of-all-churches, and master of none. I have studied most of the major religions, and many of the lesser known. Faith, as a practice, fascinates me. So it is, that almost forty years later, I understand that much of the mystery of the Catholic faith isn’t so much a matter of secrecy as it is ritual. Still, compared to Methodism, one of the least imaginative religions ever practiced, Catholicism piqued my interest.

It’s aura lies in its accoutrement; priests in fine robes with satin sashes and impressive head-gear, an assortment of ranked deities, confessionals, and, of course, the rosary.

The first rosary I ever saw was made of rose quartz. I remember thinking it beautiful. Respecting my mother’s admonition, I never considered I could own one until learning that Catholic’s don’t own the patent on the rosary. It seems that this, like so many Protestant traditions, is a practice borrowed from a much older religion.

Buddhists, too, worry rosaries, or malas, during prayer. Traditionally consisting of one hundred and eight beads, a mala is used to keep count while reciting a mantra in meditation. Elizabeth Gilbert elaborated on this tradition, beautifully, in her book “Eat, Pray, Love”. In the book, she points out the symbolism of the number three, inherent in the Buddhist mala. She refers to the number of beads, one hundred and eight, as the perfect number because, while being divisible by three, its individual numbers add up to nine, which, when perfectly divided, also amounts to three, a number of importance in many religions; as in Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

After reading, and being inspired by, Ms. Gilbert’s book, I ordered and received a Tibetan mala. One hundred and eight, perfectly symmetrical, wooden beads line up along a piece of ordinary twine that, purportedly, has been blessed by one or more Tibetan monks. The beads came protected by a tiny satin, hand-embroidered purse, and they reside within the confines of my over-sized, designer hand-bag.

Today, after receiving several prayer requests from an assortment of friends, residing in a variety of locales across the globe, I retrieved the beads. They rode in my pant’s pocket for most of the day, and now, are secreted against my chest.

Oils, from my hands, lend a new-found gleam to their wooden faces, as my touch reminds me of their purpose, and I pray…

Giving Thanks

Have I ever told you that I thank God for you, everyday?

Have I ever told you that all through my day

as snippets of conversation dance across my brain,

and the sound of your laughter echoes from a warm place,

I embrace the feeling and raise it up in thanks.

And, sometimes, sometimes if I’m really present

and I hold that feeling up really high,

I am sure I feel a “You’re welcome”…