Grand Rockette

My dappled dark bay mare’s elegance and refined grace astound me. She’s 33 years old. In human years she’s, well…old. A bit of arthritis has settled into her hind leg joints. She’s missing some teeth and her neck is stiff. Her left eye drips, attracting flies. She continues to live her life with complete joy, never losing her sense of purpose. Each day is a new opportunity for her to munch on tasty grass, fresh cut hay and perhaps some bits of apple. She moves her body, enjoys her friends and blissfully naps in the sun. The graceful manner in which she moves about her world enamors me and invites me to do the same. As my own body changes and sometimes challenges me, all I need to do is look out the window or step outside and touch my elegant friend. She reminds me how to be present with what exists in my body and my world. She is my greatest teacher.

When I Am Old...

When I am old, I shall wear muck boots and lipstick.
And faded denim overalls with a ripped pocket right in front.
I shall spend my husband’s life insurance money
On fresh cut hay, grooming brushes, oats and fencing supplies.
I will haul my fragile bones out to the yard
And meditate to the harmony of my beauties munching hay,
And I shall inhale their scent deep into my cells
Because they are my best medicine.
I shall experience my most intimate conversations
With my special mares
And not give a darn if others think
That I am “that whacky horse lady.”
I shall climb upon my aging friend’s comfortable back at sunrise
And go on an adventure, even if only into the nearby field
So she can graze.
I shall dream of our days gone by…
Of galloping through the bean fields, jumping fallen trees,
And exploring in the woods.
And I shall ask my Creator that when my time on Earth is done,
That I be greeted on the other side
With the familiar whinnies of my very best friends,
My horses.

Authentic Self

In the depths of the horse stalls,
I spot her...
Maneuvering a manure fork like a melody,
In her mud soaked boots and lipstick.

I feel the warmth of her compassionate heart
   as the scent of horse sweat escapes from her pores.
She is always here with me on the farm, feeding chickens,
   grooming horses, playing with dogs.
I ask her to join me on my escapades...
   to the coffee house, on errands, to the river or to meet friends.
She is good company.

Sometimes her hand slips from mine
   in moments where confidence has waned.
As she becomes distant, I begin to disappear.
I frantically search for her warm palm against mine.
I stop.
Breathe deep.
Remember the truth.
And the scent of her, however faint,
Returns.

The Big Yellow Dog

Straight legs, drippy eyes, faded hearing.
She sits in the grass like an old yogi without a mat.
Pondering, remembering fondly...
days of limber legs, boundless running, dips in the river,
and incessant tennis ball chasing.
She welcomes her maturity.
Fourteen years in this body have
brought her wisdom and deep love.
Nose lifts to the wind...
Inhaling scents of the past and present.
Will she see one more summer?
My human attachment longs for the answer to be yes.
She has no attachment.
She knows better.
Time and bodies are only grand illusions.

                                                                          Lovely Chamois

"So Long" to The General

Stanley, aka "The General"

     As our first year with chickens rounded the corner and headed into the second, we ended up purchasing five more baby female chicks. Our four hens became balder by the week as our dear Stanley continued his amorous behavior with fervor.  Known as “rooster tracks,” hens’ backs become featherless when a rooster frequently breeds them. Did you know that they actually stand on the hens’ backs when breeding? Jeesh! Our four little hens were not enough for Mr. Love.  Hence, the new babies. As summer progressed and the fluffy chicks grew into pullets, and then into hens, we kept them side by side with Stanley and his harem, with a fence in between. They got used to each other quickly and Stanley even patrolled the newbies from his side of the fence. When the youngsters became large enough, we integrated all ten chickens. All was going well until Stanley decided that little Clara would be the chosen one.  Boy did he have a crush on her! Poor girl. We thought she might not make it. Seriously. Back to the other side of the fence the youngsters went. A few days later we noticed two large gashes on Clover’s side. She’s one of the adults. Our four older hens were looking haggard and bald.  Besides Stanley’s high testosterone level, he began attacking Pete and me ever since he witnessed us picking up an escaped hen. Some scary moments ensued for us during egg collection and henhouse cleaning after that…on a daily basis. Something had to change.

     I had looked a few months earlier for someone, anyone…who might want a large, red, aggressive and amorous rooster. As you can imagine, that person did not exist. So after our failed hen integration, I suggested that Pete ask our hay guy if he might want a rooster. He had a farm full of virgin hens. Surprisingly, he said “Yes!” He actually wanted a rooster because his “hens needed some teaching.” Apparently they didn’t know how to roost in the henhouse at night. If Stanley knew how to do anything, it was to teach hens. We called him “The General” because he operated in a military fashion and took his job very seriously.  Despite all the breeding, the hens actually seemed to adore him. He protected them, fed them right from his own beak, and ushered them in to roost precisely one hour before sunset.
     As much as we revered and loved our incredible rooster, he had to go. It was the perfect situation at the new farm. He’d have a job to do and would not end up the featured guest on someone’s Saturday night dinner table. Pete loaded him into a large dog crate and drove our red general to his new digs. A large number of hens awaited his arrival, I’m sure not quite aware of what Stanley’s presence would mean for them.
     A week later upon stepping out of his truck at the hay farm, one happy red rooster greeted Pete and strutted around as though he owned the entire farm. His full-feathered hens looked content as well. Our farmer friend loves Stanley already and is pleased with the job he is doing. And back home, our hens have new little feather stems poking out of their backs already. Although we miss Stanley's magnificent presence, I am no longer terrified to collect my breakfast entrée each morning. All is well on the farm.

Partners in Crime

After feeding the horses this afternoon I returned to our fenced in back yard where my dogs were nowhere to be seen.  Usually they wait by the gate for me.  I walked toward the other end of our large yard to see Chamois, our yellow lab peeking out from behind a group of large pine trees.  She looked back behind the pines, then slowly headed toward me with a slight and unsure tail wag.  “Where’s Lola?” I asked.  Like a bolt of lightning, Lola and her terrier speed shot across the yard to greet me.  Normally she then stays by my side.  Not today.  She turned around and sped back over toward the pines, stopping before she arrived.  She turned around toward me again, “C’mon!  Look what we found!”  Clearly she wanted me to follow her.  Chamois stuck close to my heels as we followed Lola.  Tucked nicely between the fence and a pine tree was a ten-inch deep hole that was perfectly dug by some crafty dog feet.  There was nothing in it.  I looked in the yard where Lola now stood with something resembling noodles dangling from her lips.  “Lola, Leave it.” I stated firmly.  Completely obedient, she dropped the delicacy on the grass. She must be more terrier than she is beagle.  A beagle doesn't drop anything.  Both dogs wagged their tails as they watched me scoop up a hunk of intestines and other organs into my glove.  I hurled them over the fence and took a closer look at my dogs.  Lola’s front feet and legs were plastered in mud, as was her entire muzzle and forehead.  She must have done the digging while Chamois served as look-out.   Clearly they were working together on this project.  The best part of the whole thing was their joy in including me in their adventure.  Being one of the pack is pretty cool.  They had no idea they were headed to the bathtub.

Lola and Chamois

Friends

     Twenty-two degrees today. Wind speed of zero, crisp clean air, and the sun’s gift of warmth surrounding the earth. Like cats in a sunspot, the horses soak up the rays while lying down in the reflective snow. Just peering out the window at them brings me to a place of quiet inside myself. They are perfect role models on how to live a peaceful, active life.
     Today after spreading several flakes of hay as a noon snack for my five beauties, I brought out the bucket of grooming supplies and set it on the ground next to me. I just stood watching these incredible mares enjoying their hay when Willow, our 29 year old chestnut surprised me. With a mouthful of green sprigs dangling from her lips, she picked up her head, turned on her hindquarters, and purposefully ambled over to me. After giving her a peppermint from my pocket, I assumed she’d turn right around and go back to her hay. They rarely leave their hay for any reason. However, she stayed. She stood shoulder to shoulder with me and rested a hind leg, inviting me to “be” with her. I picked Willow’s favorite curry comb from the bucket and began to groom her. She contorted her neck, closed her eyes, and let out a contagious sigh. After a few minutes of this I realized that standing behind me nudging my elbow with her perfect black muzzle was Scarlet! She wanted to be next! I turned my attention to Scarlet and began to scratch her ears as Willow walked away and went back to eating. As I curried Scarlet’s velvet neck and rib cage for several minutes, who showed up behind my back, but Grace! Laughing out loud, I began to curry Grace’s lean red back and hindquarters. She, in turn, started grooming Scarlet’s neck with her lips and teeth. Scarlet returned the favor by helping me groom Graces neck. We had become a triangle of “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” This is what friends do. After this joyful interaction ended, I walked away smiling. I’m pretty sure my mares were smiling too.



Scarlet, Grace, and Willow last summer



The Uninvited Guest

     As we headed out to the hen house last Sunday I noticed “something” casing the perimeter of the fenced-in chicken run. It was gray and about the size of a small cat. We had just come from the barn where our two gray barn cats snoozed in a sunspot in one of the stalls, so I knew it couldn’t be one of them. “Pete, what is that?” I grabbed his coat sleeve as we slowed our pace and crept closer. Pink protruding nose, pink toes, hairy body, and a long tail…it was an opossum. In eleven years on our farm, we have never seen one.
     Every horse owner fears the presence of opossums for one reason and one reason only…EPM. Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis. It is a neurologic disease in which a parasite invades the central nervous system of the horse. So what does this have to do with funny faced little opossums? Opossums carry the eggs of those parasites in their feces. If a horse eats or drinks from an area where these have been dropped, they get sick. Lesions develop on their brains and spinal cords and they become atrophied and uncoordinated in their hindquarters, leaning and falling down. They lose the ability to know where their feet are. Many have to be put down. If caught early enough, costly drug treatment helps some horses, but not all. It is a frightening and debilitating disease.
     So…now you understand my reaction to the opossum on our property. We have five horses. That day, Pete chased after it in an attempt to scare it off. A few hours later from the comfort of our sunroom, I saw it inside our fenced-in back yard, casing the fenceline from the inside. This is our dog yard and a little too close for comfort. After finding nothing to eat, the opossum left the yard and we lost sight of it. Later that day, Pete saw it yet again by the chickens, scaling their fence like a rock climber. The chickens just stood there carrying on with their rooting and scratching, seeming oblivious to the drooling predator, with the exception of Stanley. A fierce protector of his hens, our red rooster strutted a circle around his girls, puffed up and ready for battle.
     I strive to show compassion to all beings, so eliminating Mr. Opossum was out of the question for me or for any hit man-for-hire. Instead, I simply asked the opossum to kindly leave, that there was no food here for him, and that if he did not leave, he would end up in a live trap and curried to another county via our truck. We haven’t seen him since. No tracks in the snow, no droppings, no pink snout, no opossum. It was that simple. Horses, chickens, and humans can all relax. All is well on the farm.

An opossum I found online

The Gift

We all love to get gifts. Pretty packages with silver ribbons or doo-jiggy adorned bags bring out the giddy child in all of us. Some gifts, however, are not wrapped in silver. Many seemingly insignificant gifts go unrecognized. Some, if we pay attention, soak into our hearts and can bring out a dose of gratitude that we can share with the world. As I get to know our four hens and rooster, I continue to be astounded at the teachers they are. Who knew?? On Thanksgiving afternoon, Pete and I camped out in the hen house rigging up a heat lamp knowing that the temperature was to drop in the low teens that night. Dressed in our carharts and big boots, the two of us took up most of the room in the building. All five chickens, who love to be next to us, scurried into the henhouse and milled around among our legs. Clover, one of the brown and white Speckled Sussex hens immediately settled herself into the nest box. We watched as she rooted around making quiet warbly sounds that we had never heard before. Meanwhile Stanley, who has grown into an enormous red rooster, jumped up and stood outside the nest box, watching over Clover as she continued to scrape away bedding, lie down, and stand up repeatedly. Clover didn’t seem to even notice or mind our presence. Twenty minutes of rooting and scraping, and suddenly Clover let out a huge squawk. Then she settled down into the bedding, stood up, and out plopped a perfect cream colored egg. Stanley’s job as protector was done, so he hopped down and began to eat. Soon Clover joined in, and all of the chickens became wildly excited, like they were proud to gift us with Clover’s egg. I’ve noticed that every time there is an egg waiting for us in the nest box, the chickens greet us with exceptional enthusiasm. It may seem like no big deal to see a chicken lay an egg, but for us it felt special and made our hearts open just a little more that day. The chickens’ collective joy over the event was an even greater gift. So simple. So perfect.

Clover, 6 months

The Spirit of a Farm

     “A farm has its own spirituality that gives immense meaning and pleasure. It can’t be measured in acres or the quantity of animals and crops. A farm is a spiritual thing that feeds your soul, as its spirituality pours out of every outbuilding and bale of hay. Nothing is more tangible and sensuous than a farm, and yet it is also full of spirit.”                          -Thomas Moore


     Feeling blue on a chilly, drizzly November day, I decided I needed a good dose of “farm” to lift me up. Bundling up in my winter boots, hat, and Lands End parka, my blues turned to a vibrant yellow just as soon as my boot touched the sleeping grass. Facing the ground to avoid the wind, I headed over to the chicken coop. Lifting my chin upon reaching the coop brought an immediate smile to my face, and warmth to my soul. Juliette and Misha flew up to the roost so they could be at my eye level for a proper greeting. The others welcomed me from the ground, hustling and bustling, wondering what goodies I may have brought from the kitchen. Happy and chattering, they invited me into their enclosure. To them, it’s just weather. They carried on with their scratching, pecking, and scurrying, content to be alive and cared for. As I sat with my feathered friends climbing onto my legs, I felt more and more comfort seeping deep into my soul. Clouds and drizzle, wind and cold no longer mattered. The wise and nurturing soul of our farm took hold of me and wrapped me up in a favorite worn quilt. As I headed back to the house, joy spilled out from my pores and the November blues had disappeared.


Beautiful Juliette



Just a Frog

     Every year in August and September we are delighted to see a number of tiny lime green tree frogs on the outside of our sunroom windows as the sun sets. They are so smart…they hang around those windows because we have lights on inside, which attract tiny bugs. Pete and I are easily amused. We spend time watching these frogs. They wait, still as statues with only their little throats vibrating in and out, until suddenly…snap! Their skinny little tongues dart out of their mouths and snap up any loitering gnats.
     During tree frog season we are careful not to squish any of them in the window or trap them between the window and the screen overnight. Recently one evening before going to bed, I cranked the living room window shut and didn’t give it a thought because it was October and we thought the frogs were gone. The next morning I went to open the same window. As I looked down at the base of the window, I was horrified. I slowly turned the crank and there he was. A bright green tree frog who now had a left hind leg that had turned a shriveled gray and hung there like a limp string. I had inadvertently closed the window on his little leg! His eyes were open and his little throat was still going. “I’m so sorry!” Sadness hung over me like a fragrance as I realized I had harmed this tiny being. He must have struggled all night to try to free his leg.
     I stood by the window for a long time and sorrowfully watched my lame little friend. I thought maybe he’d just fall off the window ledge. He didn’t. Instead, he proceeded to hop up the entire length of window with his string leg dragging behind him as if this were no big thing. I was astonished. I know some people would say to me, “Oh, Karen, it’s just a frog. It doesn’t really matter in the big scheme of things.” Well, it matters to that frog. I know I didn’t mean to harm him, but I felt terrible that I caused him to suffer.
     We humans sometimes blow our own little troubles out of proportion, allowing our problems to stop us from living our purpose. We lose our passion for the things we love. This tiny frog had a huge difficulty and he just dragged it behind him as if it were all going to be okay. I don’t know what happened to him or if he made it, but he taught me something.
     So I ask you this…are your troubles stopping you from being in your life? Are you continuing on up the window despite your difficulties? I know that the next time something is bothering me, I will think of my tiny lime green friend, his perseverance, his courage, and his will to continue on up the window on three legs, even though he was “just a frog.”

A summer tree frog

Acceptance

     Repeatedly the I-Ching tells me that modesty, gentleness, and acceptance are the some of the keys to staying in balance. Modesty I understand. I admit that gentleness is taking me a bit longer, particularly in reference to not being hard on myself. I am getting there. Acceptance…hmmm…this is a tough one. Being IN each moment; staying present with what is and not trying to aggressively change things; seeing the beauty and recognizing the lesson provided in every single moment…without resistance. Seriously, this is hard.
     Recently my days have been filled with fatigue and body aches. As usual, our animals, the wise sages that they are, gently remind me about true acceptance. These four leggeds and winged ones keep me moving, present, and sane. So I haul my tired self out to the barn several times each day and dole out carefully decided proportions of hay to each of our girls. In doing so, I notice Willow, our 28 year-old chestnut beauty, hobble over to her hay pile with sheer delight. She reminds me of a child tasting ice cream for the first time. Her eyes are lit up and her whole being is smiling, even though she is completely lame with arthritis in one hind leg, has Cushing’s Disease, and cataracts. Willow does not let these serious issues become larger than her love for her hay, fondness of her friends, or joy in her life. As she lowers her head and begins to sample the delicacy before her, she closes her eyes and truly tastes each bite. She has immersed herself in the moment of delight in her food. I crouch down. I watch. I listen to the melody of all the horses chewing. My heart swells and I become lost inside this moment, forgetting my own aches. Willow is a constant reminder to me that my own issues in my body do not have to be so loud all the time. The simple joys are always there and I can recognize and appreciate them more easily when I am in a state of acceptance. After all, joy is what it’s all about, isn’t it?

The Stella/Stanley Update

Okay, I am finally admitting it.  Stella's a fella!  Four mornings in a row now, exactly as the sun was peeking through the bluffs to the east of our farm, a funny sound squeaked it's way through the slightly open window of the henhouse.  It was not the comforting warbly drone of a hen.  No, indeed.  It was a half-hearted cock-a-doodle-doo of a maturing rooster.  Actually it was more of a cock-a-doodle...without the doo.  I'm sure that the "doo" is soon to emerge as he learns all about this new thing called a voice.  He is maturing quite beautifully and is suddenly twice the size of all the hens.  This new man in our lives is now called STANLEY.

And did you know they have vending machines that sell bugs and worms???  We have a bait shop in town where we occasionally stop to get such delicacies for our chickens (did I mention that our chickens have it made?).  Today we noticed that outside the store there is a vending machine.  The bottom row contains the usual mountain dew, pepsi, and bottled water.  The top three rows have containers of red worms and slugs!  Kind of a weird concept, but good to know, just in case Stanley and associates run out.

STANLEY at 4 months

Stanley Up Close and Personal

An Unexpected Friendship

     New friends are given to us in just the right timing. After grieving the loss of our two beagles in a two week period, we found a new friend in Lola. We adopted Lola, a three year-old beagle terrier mix, from a rescue in Madison. We could only guess what she had to endure in her former “home.” Lola would cower at just about everything…quick movements by us, noises, even our back yard created fear in this 25 pound sweetie. With consistent love and acceptance on our part, Lola came around with most things within months. We hoped to get a second dog before too long so she could have a friend.
     I took Lola to basic obedience classes at our local vet clinic. She did well with basic commands as long as she was by my side. Other dogs, however, terrified her, especially large ones. She would squish herself down into the floor to become invisible, and occasionally growl at them with her hair raised. We thought we’d never be able to get a second dog to keep her company because every dog she met scared her so much. We decided to let the idea go, and trust that if a dog showed up in our lives, we would consider it.
     An entire year went by when my friend, Lori asked us if we could dog-sit her yellow lab for a week. At first we thought, “Yikes…a lab?” We were not sure Lola could handle this, so we agreed to have her bring the dog over for a “meet and greet” and see what happened. Lori showed up with her 12 year old, 67 pound dog named “Chamois.” With both dogs on leashes out in the yard, Lola actually wagged her tail when she saw Chamois coming! I couldn’t believe it! She sniffed Chamois all over and not one hair stood up. No growling. No cowering. Chamois, a true lady, expressed no interest in Lola, which was perfect for her. We decided it was a go! The moment Chamois entered our house, it felt like she was OUR dog. She fit right in and made herself comfortable. Lola was fine! A few days later Lori and I discussed the possibility of Chamois staying with us for the rest of her life. Although very sad to part with her, Lori agreed because she didn’t feel she was home enough to meet Chamois’ needs. Chamois could live out her last few years peacefully on our farm. We were thrilled.
     Chamois has been with us for five months now. She plays with tennis balls and Lola runs along side her. When it is time for dinner, Lola goes and gets Chamois before she comes into the kitchen. Lola takes comfort in Chamois during a storm, and she even licks her face. Chamois has taught Lola that she doesn’t have to bark in the back yard when we are out in the barn, and that she can stay outside for hours enjoying the sunshine even if we are not out there too. Lola’s confidence has skyrocketed and she is much less afraid now when she meets a new dog…even a large one. Everyone deserves a best friend, and Lola found hers in an aging yellow lab.




Lola and Chamois, Sept. 2010

  

Stella or Stanley?

     It sounded easy. All I had to do was pick out what kinds of chickens my husband and I wanted and the hatchery would ship the baby chicks to me via the U.S. Postal Service. I did my research and ordered six females…all different breeds that would be winter hardy and lay lots of eggs. We knew we didn’t want a rooster because sometimes they are too protective of their hens. I called the post office to alert them of my delivery which was supposed to be early one Tuesday morning in May. By Tuesday afternoon, my impatience grew as I found out that they had not arrived. I knew baby chicks could survive about three days without food or water after they were hatched. They lived on the yolk that was inside them. Being that this was day two, I began to worry. In my head, I had already taken these little beings on as my own charges. I called the hatchery and they said that sometimes it takes two days for shipment, and that the chicks would be fine. Okay. Wednesday morning came and still no chicks. Where were my new babies? By noon that day and many, many phone calls, I managed to track them down. They were sitting in the mail distribution center in Madison. Whew. I drove an hour and found the loading dock and was greeted by a cheery mail manager who handed me a box with pieces of straw sticking out of it. I heard peeping, so I strapped the box in my front seat and headed home, talking to these babies the whole way.
     Our chick home was all ready…a cardboard box in our bathroom with wood shavings, chick feed, water, and the typical red heat lamp to keep them warm and alive. I carefully opened the box of peeping chicks and felt like I had suddenly been kicked in the chest. ONE peeping yellow chick stood there on top of all her friends who had died during shipping. I gently picked her up and held her as one tear rolled off my left cheek. “Oh, dear,” I told her, “You are a survivor. I’m so sorry about your friends.” As I set this chick down into her new home all by herself, the name “Stella” popped into my head loud and clear. Stella is not a name I am fond of, so I tried to push it away and call her Gloria or Mabel. No way. This girl was truly a “Stella.” I realized that Stella is the name of a tough chick, a survivor. You don’t mess with a Stella.
     Stella quickly imprinted onto me. When I put my hand into her box, she would crouch under it and preen herself, as though she were being protected by her mother’s wing. She would call to us every few hours and when we peeked into the bathroom, she would stretch her neck up tall, looking to see where we were. She would close her little chick eyes as I held her close into my neck, and she would sit on Pete’s lap. But Stella was all alone.
     The hatchery apologized and said they would “replace” the chicks in 3-4 weeks. What?? Are you kidding me? I realize that they ship out hundreds of chicks at at time, but they appeared to have no regard for these little lives that were lost. And four weeks was unacceptable for me and for lonely Stella.
     Five days later, I happened upon a “Chickens 101” class being held in someone’s back yard in the nearby town. What were the chances? After almost giving up locating the class that day, I eventually found it. When I walked into the kind hosts’ kitchen, they had a childrens swimming pool on their dining room table with about 15 baby chicks in it. They told me they needed to re-home about half of them! Again…what were the chances! Flooded with relief, I headed home that day with four friends for Stella. When I put the first one in the box with her, she chased her and pecked at her! Oh no! I worried that tough Stella had become too used to being alone. My worries were relieved as soon as I put the rest of the chicks in the box. Stella was kind to them but was clearly the boss. I guess that’s where the term “pecking order” came from. Stella was very happy and all was well in her world.
     Stella and associates are now over three months old, living outside in a chicken palace, and expected to lay eggs in a month or so. Recently a friend’s husband came over to meet the chickens. Somewhat of an expert, he took one look at Stella and said, “I’m pretty sure that’s a rooster.”
     “What? No. I ordered all females. She’s a hen.” After much discussion, my new friend thought I had better look online at Stella’s specific breed characteristics just to be sure. I did that, and I still don’t know. She looks like some of the hens and some of the roosters I found. I realized that we won’t know until we know. If by the end of September we don’t have any eggs from our dear Stella, we may need to call her Stanley. Time will tell.

Baby Stella

Stella or Stanley,  3 months

Be the Prayer

Be the Prayer
     I entered the barn yesterday to find a fledgling barn swallow sitting on the concrete floor next to the stacks of hay bales. Thankfully Roger and Tilly (our barn cats) were no where to be seen. All the relatives of this baby hurriedly flew in and out, whizzing by me, loudly asking me not to hurt their child. I knew I couldn’t put her back into the nest…it was way too high for me to reach. I couldn’t leave her there to be the next snack for Roger and Tilly. I didn’t know what to do…so I simply took a breath and asked for help. I spotted an old shirt and carefully arranged it nest-like in the wash stall brush rack. It was high enough that the cats couldn’t reach, and perhaps the baby's parents could still feed her. I calmly and gently picked up the little beauty and held her for a moment. She quietly looked into my eyes and I was mesmerized. She chose to trust me. Her body was the size of a ping pong ball. She displayed iridescent blue and black feathers interspersed with sprigs of fluff that are only found on baby birds. Her beak still looked like lips because of her immaturity. She was so cute I could hardly stand it. I spoke softly to her, “I’m going to help you.” I placed her into the shirt-nest and watched her settle in like it was home. Letting out a huge sigh, I stepped back and asked all of her worried relatives to please come and feed her here so she could perhaps try again the next day. Not knowing what else to do, I went in the house. I must have checked on her six times over the rest of the evening. I had done my part. The next day, the baby was gone. I do not know if she ended up in the belly of our cats. I hope that she tried her wings again after a night of rest and made it, gracing the world with her beauty and gentleness.
     This incident reminded me of a something I recently read about “being the prayer,” rather than just occasionally saying one. I realized that other species know how to be the prayer, to flow with nature’s rhythms instead of struggling against them like we humans often do as we rush through our lives. Prey animals in particular must be present every moment or they become someone’s lunch.
     Sometimes I feel that my life is small, filled with small acts. How is saving the life of one tiny, seemingly insignificant barn swallow impacting the larger scheme of the world? I must believe that it is. One compassionate act toward another holds a vibration. This vibration is felt by another and can’t help but be repeated, to be mirrored. Compassion, gratitude, and love, I believe, have a much larger ripple effect than their opposites of indifference and fear. I believe that in small acts of compassion live a powerful message, a song, a prayer that really does matter. Next time you see an animal in the road who has lost her life, please say a prayer for her. If a bird hits your living room window and is stunned, say a prayer for her too. Hold her in your hands with compassion. These “small” acts will be felt by others because they really do matter. Notice. Be present. Show gratitude. Be the prayer.

My Sanctuary

My 31 year old mare, Rockette

Everyone needs some sort of sanctuary...a place, a thought, a song... that takes you into that space of quiet that we as humans crave.  Here is mine...

With the clang of the gate latch closing, I step into a world that I’ve known for lifetimes. As the toe of my boot kisses the well-trodden dirt before me, I am instantly nurtured by the most pleasing scent I’ve ever inhaled. It is that of horse. I bend my creaking knees into a crouch and wait. I notice there is barely a green wisp of hay left on the nearby earth as I hear the familiar melody of her voice as she approaches. Her aging legs take smaller steps these days, but she doesn’t want me to notice that. She lowers her chocolate head and makes contact with me by grazing her whiskery muzzle over my hair. My fingers reach into the coveted pocket and retrieve pieces of apple that were carefully cut into small slices that her weakening teeth can handle. Though I cover up my own gray hair, I am well aware of hers…the ones above her soulful eyes that she proudly displays because she is not as vain as I am. I breathe in her scent, and I am rejuvenated. I look beyond her small steps, her weakening teeth, and her gray hair, and all I see is love. It’s a love like no other, and it’s the way she sees me. I see our past days filled with galloping across the bean fields, of jumping over fallen trees, and hours in the woods and pastures together just being in one another’s presence. I trust her with my life, and she trusts me with hers. Her insightful spirit shows me who I am, for she is my clearest mirror. This mare, my greatest teacher and love, is my perfect sanctuary.