Category: Literature

Palanquin Bearers

Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

- Sarojini Naidu

Happy, happy birthday to the windblown California princess . . .

Does a chewed rose smell as sweet? You bet it does!

“These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.”

- Emerson, Self Reliance

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Spring 2009 in Jenotopia has been an unpredictable whirl of torrential downpours, office drama, dozens of chicks, busy family schedules and occasional chaos. Like the flooded earth outside, I have not found enough time for the quiet reflection needed to adequately absorb events and respond in a natural and meaningful manner.

We have nearly finished cleaning up the yard and gardens after weeks of heavy rain, and it is already clear that this gardening season will be very different from last year. Last year’s breathtaking cascade of roses has been replaced with thin, defoliated bushes and piles of brown-tipped, early-rotting blooms: those plants that escaped black spot and the Old-Testament-style host of insects had their blossoms spoiled by still more rain. Our vegetable garden was planted three weeks late, simply because the heavy rain made the ground like chocolate pudding - - too heavy for tilling and planting.

The chicken coops and runs were plagued by dangerous mold from all the rain and humidity, forcing daily cleaning with bleach and lots of shoveling. Even the brooder chicks felt the effects of the weather, being forced to stay indoors instead of playing outside in the health-giving sunshine in the afternoons. I had some initial trouble locating buyers for some of my older chicks, resulting in a bit more crowding than I would have liked. And most unfortunate of all, we had to put down two chicks for unrelated issues, one for severe deformities and one, tragically, for illness related to his digestive system.

My beautiful Skye - - tragically lost to us

Dear, sickly chick begs the question of why there is suffering among little ones

I write all this only to say that now that I have time to reflect on the season’s happenings, I find a general current of dissatisfaction underlying my perception of things. When I look around and see chewed roses and mucky gardens, sick pets and stressed families and piles of paperwork and a messy house, I realize I am comparing these things to an ideal I have in my head - - an ideal of perfection.

So what is perfection, this thing at the source of my unease? –And more importantly, can I have it surgically removed?

A Western philosopher could take the predictable route through Aristotle, through Thomas Aquinas and others who follow and interpret the concept of perfection through religious lenses as it relates to mankind and his environment - - and his God. Mathematicians, chemists and those of the scientific ilk may take refuge in quantifications of perfection that may be calculated or measured. Perfection in art further complicates the philosophical picture, now elevating the question to throbbing Jenotopia headache status.

I will reserve the headache-inducing philosophical arguments for my unfortunate family and nearby friends, then, and suffice with this: I finally realized I have perpetuated my own sense of unease and dissatisfaction by maintaining a personal idea of perfection that is flawless, spotless, glossy, improbable, and not in keeping with the glorious, overgrown chaos of reality in which I live. In my mind’s eye I saw velvety, flawless roses in a beautifully-manicured garden; weather that responded to my every whim; customers who called when I wanted them to and purchased my birds without question; a house that magically maintained itself; and a family that constantly read my mind and did whatever I wished. By maintaining this exercise in fantasy, my eye became trained to miss the unscrubbed uniqueness and beauty that is all around me!

Remember those chewed roses I mentioned? They sufficed quite well for the bees, and in the mornings and evenings their heavenly perfume still fills the air when I am out in the yard.

The soppy, late vegetable garden? We tilled and planted it just fine once the rain ended, and we now have lovely brown rows of earth with all sorts of vegetables peeping out and blooming. The soil texture is now the best it has ever been.

New rows of plants and sleeping seeds: late but still viable

The moldy, wet chicken coops? They are drying out, and the hens come out and flap their wings in hearty satisfaction when they see the morning sun rising behind the maple trees.

The overcrowded chicks? My handsome, noisy young roosters have all been sold off to live with their own harems of lovely ladies, and I have three beautiful young pullets growing into very fine laying hens. Fall in Jenotopia will be chock-full of blue and dark brown eggs!

Nick struts around . . . in the kitchen??

We miss you already, Big Rosie

Farewell, Apollo and Daphne

Pretty young pullets

And my family? They are as loving as ever, and those who need to are stepping in to support those in need. The children are growing into beautiful adults, we adults are learning what is important in life, and we are all growing wiser and more appreciative of each other.

And how about that job? Back at the office my paperwork ebbs and flows but never really goes away, but as I watch friends and acquaintances struggle with layoffs and life changes while I enjoy abundance, I realize just how fortunate I am to remain insulated against many of the changes going on in the world around me. I have goals and dreams for the future path of my life - - but while out in the garden on a sunny Saturday morning snipping plants and enjoying the sounds of the girls clucking away, I am filled with the silent knowledge that in its own funny way my life is complete right now - - in all its unvacuumed, bug-chewed, feather-strewn glory.

What is perfection, then? I won’t presume to argue with the great philosophers or mathematicians or spiritual leaders, but for me perfection is that which is sufficient unto itself. It lacks nothing: it is harmonious, a state of completeness. It is not a static, unchanging ideal: it reflects the beauty and power of the objects and individuals I encounter - - all of whom are complete, yet ever-unfolding into their unique potential.

I am looking forward to another perfect summer.

March pear blossoms

Vieni vieni candida
vien vermiglia
tu del mondo sei maraviglia
tu nemica d’amare noie
da ad anima delle gioie
messaggiera per primeravera
tu sei dell’anno la giovinezza
tu del mondo sei la vaghezza.

Translation:
Come [flowers and blossoms],
come white, come vermilion.
You are a marvel for the world
and the nemesis of all things dreary.
Give joy to the soul
through your message of spring.
You are the youth of the year
and the beauty of the world.

– Giuseppino (Italian, ca. 1600)

While it is still getting down near freezing on some nights, we are enjoying some glorious spring days here in Middle Tennessee. The warm sunny afternoons signaled the sleeping plants, who are yawning and stretching toward the sunlight. The grass has its first flush of green, daffodils cover the hillsides near old farm houses in the Shire, and when I stumble outside in the pre-dawn darkness to feed the hens, the sky is filled with the sound of birds. –Not just songbirds, mind you: my little banty hens sing to me as well, although their “song” sounds more like a group of angry jays scolding me.

The little ladies are doing well, and I believe all four of the gold-necked d’Uccles are laying now. There is a bit of hen drama going on in the coops, however, as the onset of spring has signaled two of my bantam cochins to go broody.

When a hen decides to “go broody,” she will sit for weeks on a nest in a trancelike state. She will have pulled the soft down feathers from her breast area to line her nest and expose the eggs to the warmth of her skin. She may leave the nest very briefly for food, water and a good stretch, but a good broody hen will return to her responsibility quickly. To the nest she’ll return and sit, flattened and growling like an angry pancake, pecking anyone who dares disturb her precious eggs.

Both Lucy Liu and Aunt Bea have gone broody (yes, Aunt Bea is still here, but that’s another story). Luckily for them I happened to have some fertile bantam cochin eggs from a contact in North Carolina, and both hens hatched out some adorable little chicks. Unluckily for me, I removed the chicks to stay with their brothers and sisters in a brooder, and both hens are now still broody.

Angry pancake: Lucy Liu awaits egg hatching

I seem to be on a trajectory winding ever closer to Ultimate Cuteness: first the bantam hens, then two batches of standard-size chicks, and now a batch of what may be the cutest chicks ever: bantam cochin frizzles. These chicks are bantam sized cochins, with full, round tail feathering and feathered feet. As an added bonus, though, over half have the genetic trait of “frizzling,” meaning their feathers curl. When they are grown they will look like adorable one-pound little feather balls. Be still, my heart!

At one week of age I can already tell which ones express the frizzle gene. Below on the left is a “splash” chick, who will be white with splashes of grey. Her feathers will be straight. On the right is a blue (or possibly lemon blue) chick who will be frizzled. Even his tiny foot feathers are curled!

Bantam frizzle cochins, one straight-feathered and one with frizzle gene

In between caring for chicks and hens, I am also beginning my garden preparations for the year. I spent yesterday planting herbs and roses around the banty playhouse, and I hope to begin planting vegetable seedlings indoors today - - although those who know me and my superstitions also know I will not be ready to announce my 2009 plantings until we are fully past the “jinx” stage. We will keep the same size plot we used last year, though, with some changes to the lineup to get more of the veggies we want.

As I type this I am looking out the window realizing we are blessed with another gorgeous spring day - - and I am indoors! I am going outside to enjoy the lovely weather, and I wish you all a Sunday full of sunshine and new leaves poking through the warm soil.

Thaney bored with photo session

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For a cute video of broody hens, visit Rooster Red’s YouTube video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7-HY5OV5CA .

To read about the New World Renaissance Band’s album featuring the quote opening this post, visit http://cdbaby.com/cd/tnwrband1 .

To learn more about Nightwatch Recording, a wonderful record label that supports medieval and Renaissance artists, visit http://www.nightwatchrecording.com/ .

What secrets does the future hold for this dark-haired lass?

We first met in 1997: you were perky, beautiful and gloriously pregnant, and despite your rounded belly you managed to wear sexy pumps and stylish skirts to work. How much water has passed under the bridge since then (although somehow I know you are still wearing sexy pumps)! With the long years and miles between us it would be easy, I suppose, to let this friendship slide into the past ~ yet somehow you manage to remind me you are here with me, always. I still know without a doubt that if I got into a jam I could call you and you would be there to help. (”Trust me?“)

1997. Daniela was born on Bastille Day that year, and every year since then I have sent a poem to commemorate the arrival of Little D ~ until last July, when The Girl broke her back. I have not forgotten my failure, so I hope I can make it up to you by sending my schmoopiness over the ether for all to see and groan.

I usually send child-like poems, but D is not really a little girl any more, is she? She is dreaming big girl dreams, so this year I’ll send out a wish that she will never stop chasing them.

Love you, Ang! Wish Daniela a very happy birthday for me.

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I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
      I shall start a heron soon
      In the marsh beneath the moon—
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
          Rising and crying
        Wordless, wondrous things;
      The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings
        The answer to their woe.
Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”

My wild soul waited on as falcons hover.
I beat the reedy fens as I trampled put.
      I heard the mournful loon
      In the marsh beneath the moon.
And then, with feathery thunder, the bird of my desire
          Broke from the cover
        Flashing silver fire.
      High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire.
          The pale clouds gazed aghast
As my falcon stooped upon him, and gript and held him fast.

My soul dropped through the air—with heavenly plunder?—
Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?
      Nay! but a piteous freight,
      A dark and heavy weight
Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled—
          All of the wonder
        Gone that ever filled
      Its guise with glory. O bird that I have killed,
        How brilliantly you flew
Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!

Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor,
And I ride the world below with a joyful mind.
      I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon—
A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!
          I beat forever
        The fens and the sedges.
      The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges,
          All hopes resigned!
My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find!

- William Rose Benét, The Falconer of God
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Baby Jen helping BD Soupski raise the flag, ca. 1970

It sometimes strikes me as amazing that every four years in this country we undergo a process of revising or confirming our leadership ~ without violence or bloodshed. We are a fortunate and jaded people, and we spend a great deal of time criticizing the status quo in this land. This doesn’t particularly bother me, as the mere fact that we can safely (and sometimes loudly) criticize things is a pretty incredible freedom.

I am profoundly grateful for the foresight of the people who wrote our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution ~ those who set the wheels of our freedom in motion, some with their very lives. They helped set the stage, and it is for us to finish creating the potential.

For our fellow Americans, have a safe and happy Fourth of July! For our friends of other nations, our household sends good will and blessings to you and yours.

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“Our reliance is in the love of liberty which God has planted in us. Our defense is in the spirit which prizes liberty as the heritage of all men, in all lands everywhere.”

- Abraham Lincoln
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