The Girls Are Back!

My chickens all had a hard molt in the late fall. They completely stopped laying in mid-October – not one single egg. I fed them dehydrated worms as a source of high protein and lots of good snacks. And their feathers grew as they ate the extras. And still they did not lay any eggs. All through November – no eggs. All through December – no eggs. But in January, they have returned to giving me eggs! In the lower right nesting box they have been leaving one, two, or three eggs every day. We are once again eating deviled eggs for lunch and omelets for supper.  The hens are fat and fluffy, their feathers filled out again.  My girls are back at work.  And all is right with the world -- at least in this tiny corner!

 

January Storm

Tiny icicles hang from the broad, bright green magnolia leaves. There is a sheen of ice on the outdoor surfaces. It is cold. Folks here were hoping for snow and there might have been a few flakes in the wee hours. But mostly this storm is rain for us, cold, soaking rain. As the temps creep up, the ice begins to melt. It is a rainy Sunday, gray and dreary.

 

Confusion

 

It is January. It is supposed to be – if not cold – then at least cool. But we have had many days with temps above 70, even some 80 degree days. The dandelions have popped up in the yard; the forsythia is starting to bloom. Today it is 55 and sunny, and the bees are out and about, foraging, some of them coming back to the hive with loaded pollen baskets. The queen is probably starting to lay. They will all need food, so they will eat up their stored honey. And if this goes on, they will not survive what passes for winter these days. So I am feeding them sugar and hoping they make it. They are so confused. We are all confused….

Perspective

J's sunset (posted with her permission)

My sister has joined me in painting with watercolors. It is an activity that is challenging and comforting, freeing and frustrating. There is some technique that we practice but mostly we experiment with various combinations of water and paint. A few days ago, we painted a sunrise, a morning sky with pale sun and purple and pink clouds. Her colors were vibrant and lively, but she was critical of her work, thinking that it did not look “right,” that it was not like the picture we were using for our guide. And then she turned her paper upside down and it was a sunset instead. And it was perfect! 

And it makes me think that sometimes when I am dissatisfied with something, when I think things are not quite right, I just need to turn them upside down and change my perspective...

 

Detour

The main route from our farm to “town” is closed for road work, so yesterday when I went to a doctor’s appointment, I had a detour. That way around has soaring bridges over the river, and it winds through wide stands of pine trees. The dome of the sky was pearlescent blue, melting into pink along the horizon. The sun was just beginning to rise. It was so beautiful – one of those moments that makes you catch your breath. I had the radio on, listening to the morning news. There were stories about tragic deaths, violent dictators, hatred acted out in streets and governments sickness and poverty and despair. So much of the news was evil and ugly, and yet I had detoured into the midst of goodness and beauty. What a contrast ... and a whispered commandment to seek beauty, to live in the light, to overcome evil with goodness (Romans 12:21).

Pine trees at sunrise near Wilmington --
not quite what I saw, but I was driving and did not take a photo!

 

Being Human

This being human is a guest house. 

Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 

some momentary awareness comes 

as an unexpected visitor. 

Welcome and entertain them all! 

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, 

who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, 

still, treat each guest honorably. 

He may be clearing you out for some new delight. 

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, 

meet them at the door laughing, 

and invite them in. 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 

because each has been sent 

as a guide from beyond. 

Rumi 

from The Guest House

 

Pigs at the Manger

One of our most treasured parts of Christmas is an antique manger scene. My grandmother bought it at the five-and-dime way back when Mama was a little girl, 85 or 90 years ago. In the original group of figures, there were only two wise men but there was a pair of identical twin shepherds so one of them was usually elevated to visiting king status. Baby Jesus broke his neck 30 or 40 years ago, and his head has been stuck back on, first with candle wax and then with super glue. The donkey is thread-bare, camel and sheep wobble on uneven legs, and the angel’s golden wings are a little chipped around the edges.

The manger scene was always set up for us to arrange. We moved the figures around, perched the angel on the roof of the stable (she usually fell off, hence the chipped wings), and sometimes brought in hay for the manger. Counting my mother, four generations of our family have learned the story of the Baby Jesus from that old manger scene. 

When my brother was small, he added some of his toy animals: a black plastic cow, a spotted Dalmatian, and two pink pigs. I can imagine a black cow in that first stable and maybe a dog (probably not a Dalmatian). But I am fairly sure there were no pigs. After all, this was ancient Israel, Mary and Joseph were Jewish, and pigs are definitely not kosher! 

I know that my brother was not making a conscious theological statement with the addition of the pigs; he was just offering his toys to the Baby Jesus. But the presence of the pigs at the manger is important; their presence in our Christmas scene is precious. It is a reminder that those of us who would have been outcasts at the Bethlehem stable are welcomed; that the ancient prophecies of a Messiah are fulfilled even for Gentiles; that God’s love in Jesus is radically inclusive. 

We are all invited to the manger; we are all included in the Christmas story. So come and kneel with the donkey and the dog, the camels and the cow ...and the pigs!  And practice the wild and welcoming Love that came into the world that first Christmas.

 

A Funeral

Last week, my sister and I went to a funeral for a beloved member of our community. He was a life-long friend of my father, and after Daddy died, he continued his friendship with us. He checked on us regularly and showed up often with cantaloupes, corn, and watermelons. The funeral was full of love -- and some tears and some laughter. I think our friend would have liked it. 

My sister and I were the only white people there, but I know we were not his only white friends. We came home talking about the blessing of the pastor’s message, celebrating the warm welcome from some old friends, and remembering our growing up in a community marked by love, faith, harmony, and hard work. It was a sad day and a good day, all at the same time.

 

Spring?

You can't see them very well, and this is just a tiny area,
but there are LOTS of robins out there!

The yard is full of robins. There must be a hundred or more. Saturday and Sunday, the temperature was in the upper 70s, and Friday it was 80. I spent the afternoon outside, cleaning up the garden beds, weeding, mulching – and sweating! I also watered some plantings. We are in a drought. My brother, who flies for the Forest Service, has been called in to work months ahead of “normal” fire season, fighting blazes across the state. We have a flocked Christmas tree on the porch. It looks as though it is covered in snow, but there will be no snow here. We set our little snowman on the steps. He is made of metal, otherwise he would melt. 

It is an unexpected treat to have warm winter days, but it is also unsettling. Over his long lifetime -- 98 years -- my daddy observed the slow but steady change in the weather on the farm. Corn ripened weeks earlier, first frost came later and later, irrigation was a must. And we’ve had “100-year” storms and floods on a pretty regular basis. The robins are lovely, but the seasons are out of sync.

 

Molting

The chickens started molting at the end of September. The first one to start lost her tail feathers. Then another one began to shed feathers. Soon their run looked as though someone had had a giant pillow fight: black, yellow, gray, brown feathers everywhere. And the chickens looked plucked and pitiful – and pained, as new feathers poked their fresh quills through their skin. Then a few weeks later, they stopped laying eggs -- all of them. In past years, they have given me a few eggs all through the winter. But now, not even one egg for the past six weeks. 

Molting is normal even though it doesn’t look that way. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they were fighting with each other (which they don’t) or were sick (which they aren’t). Chickens shed old feathers for new ones before winter. And some of them, obviously, stop laying, in part because of less daylight, and because their energy is going into producing new feathers. As the days grow even shorter and the nights are nippy, I am glad to see them looking more feathered and fluffy. They have their winter coats on for protection. 

And they prompt me to wonder where I need to molt. What am I keeping that is old and no longer fulfilling its intended purpose? And what do I need to shed -- even if that process makes me feel plucked and pitiful?  From the chickens I am learning that it is healthy to focus on letting go, to rest, to put my energy into the new that will emerge from that process.  It is a good Advent lesson for me!