Happiness IS Adventures! “Adventures” is a word that puts a fun spin on hens escaping my every machination to keep them safe from harm. “Unauthorized outings” from the hen compound sounds concentration campy. So, when the hens have an adventure, I play hooky for a while and see the world through hens eyes.

Spending a few hours in the hydrangeas is a welcome escape. I think Plato and Thoreau would be pleased. William Blake clearly enjoyed afternoons in great wonder. A hydrangea is magnificent to behold this time of year. All coppery, rose and gold, shimmering in the dappled light.

While exploring the garden and the encroaching wilderness, I wondered What makes the difference between the “garden” and the “wilderness?” Why is one a pleasure and the other a panic situation? The lines aren’t clearly drawn either, between the two. If it were, I would sign up for permanent garden conditions- manicured, safe, no biting or stinging things or Bears. Nothing but happiness.

But, as I said earlier the lines aren’t clearly drawn between “garden” and “wilderness,” “civil” and “uncivil.” Order and chaos. The line seems to go through our entire beings, our whole existence wavers in this uncertainty. Am I a fascist for wanting my hens safe? Is the constraint on their liberty out of love or fear?

Anyhow, enough of questions for now. I need to take practical action. So this is what I know: Being an involved hen owner deters predators! Predators fear Me. When we walk in the garden foxes don’t just see hens, they see ME. Raccoons don’t just promenade into my territory without some fear of reprisal.

It’s not clear why a predator would fear Me? Does it have a guilt complex? Animals don’t feel guilt I don’t think, although…

I remember a large Christmas Sausage went missing at my house one year and the happy miscreant hid afterwards. Nibbled diligently at the plastic wrapper what could have been for hours! And was busily working on the inner paper before we found out the matter. He seemed to KNOW it was not a dog treat, but a very special Christmas sausage for family. But, the dog IS kind of family, is he not? See how the lines between the two are blurry? He wasn’t a wolf eating my Christmas sausage. Wolves aren’t invited to Christmas dinner. (At least on purpose.) Because wolves may eventually devour us all in the end. Remember Little Red Riding Hood.

Anyhow, why do predators fear me? Does the predator assume I have the same nature as it does, and that I may eat IT?

What a horribly messed up, inside out, upside down world we live in. That a thing or being or the chaos of fear exists. Fear is the enemy of our souls. Where does it come from?