Love Made Visible

“Every man, every woman, carries in heart and mind the image of the ideal place, the right place, the one true home, known or unknown, actual or visionary.” — Edward Abbey

“Work is love made visible.” — Kahlil Gibran

“Grief does not change you, Hazel, it reveals you.” — John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Grief is the chisel that pulls out the human being from the marble of cold hard existence. Fearing grief is to fear your own true nature. To fear becoming what it is asking you to be. To fear leaving behind whatever it was that you once were. To fear building something new. It is fearing what must be done.

Letting grief do its work is the ultimate bravery. For grief is the chrysalis that all those who seek transformation must endure and break free from. It is here that we get our wings. Grief is just a different form love takes.

It’s hard to know what the nature of reality is. Does the universe conspire to help us or does it plot against us? Or worst of all, is it icy with indifference?

What if it’s all three? What if these are the paradoxes we must contend with? What if the universe refuses to be reduced to anything less than what it is - unknowable in any sort of entirety? Perhaps, it too, is always re-creating itself. Different today than it was any other day.

Sometimes the questions are more important than the answers, so I wonder, if the universe was capable of caring, would it?

I often think about what animals see when they look at us. Especially other primates. Do they see us and wonder if they were made in our image? Do they curse mankind, these demi-gods that shape and distort their lives, mercilessly.

We often feel so powerless and victimized by larger forces, seemingly out of our control, that we forget about the rather impressive power we hold over the existence of others. So, at times, I wonder if there is a larger force, not unlike us, that is also just as unsure what to do with the immensity of itself as we are.

In that thought, I feel a kinship with the universe. Maybe she’s as lost as I am. Maybe we are partners in this act of mutual creation.

So then I ask her, “what will we make of ourselves?”

“Something soft”, she answers. “Like a womb. Something soft enough for all possibilities. Something soft enough to endure the weight of those possibilities.”

This was a heavy month. I lost two of my hens to a coyote attack. Bluebell, and Juniper. To have held a chick the size and shape of an egg the day after its birth, is a feeling I hope everyone gets to experience at least once. It is the feeling of supreme wonder, child-like joy, and the weightiest of responsibilities.

I could see from day one that I was dealing with an intelligence, both similar and vastly different than my own.

I feel like hens embody womanhood. And they carry it with such grace and the spirit of sisterhood. Each one is distinct and wonderous. I loved them with the love of a mother. Many people might scoff at that remark. But I think those people do not understand what love is.

It knows not reason nor limit. It just is.

I did my best to protect the remaining four. They were tormented daily by the coyote prowling around the coop and run. They could no longer free-range and forage in the yard unattended. And they certainly could not do it with the same innocent abandon they once had.

The yard, once a dreamy summer garden, was now a barren and cold nightmare littered with the down of my babies.

And as the yard no longer felt like home, my actual home started to feel foreign as well. I started to feel hardened and brittle.

So I knew I must do something to soften myself.

A really kind and generous friend with a grand coop and garden in Snohomish agreed to take my remaining girls. They are happy there. They integrated into the flock with dignity and grace and I was proud to see them adjust to something new.

I miss them dearly, but I knew I could not care for them the way they needed. Not yet. My parents are too old to take care of them in the winter. And it is time for me to seek out a new nest for myself.

Jack and I are looking for rentals so that we can start transitioning into a life together. We are hoping to be able to buy some property in the next few years so that we can build for ourselves and our animals, the home we’ve always dreamed of.

You can tear down walls, but you can’t tear down faith. I will once again build my chicken cathedral.

Until that day, I will console myself with working and planning, and I will visit the girls when I can. Mama conspires to bring you home again one day.

And to Blue and June-bug, I love you more than you know. Rest easy, baby girls.