Copper Chronicles

The traffic roars by my house on schedule today. A current of commuters, trucks, and Friday frolickers flows every morning and recedes again in the evening like the ocean tide.

Traffic is not beautiful like the ocean buts it sounds like one and acts like one. Well, it’s an ocean of people, I suppose? I often wonder what the people doing? Where are they going? I am not a fan of driving in traffic, but it flows by my house taking the souls it harbors with it.

Today Buffy was curious about the traffic as well. Buffy is my gentle hen that floats like a cottony cloud around my yard. Hens have sensory perception that I do not. Their nervous systems I notice pick up signals and cues from the environment that I am not aware of. Perhaps they are ‘tuned into another frequency’ so to speak.

When I saw my hens by the side of the road, they looked rather at ease. There was a lull in traffic that time of day. Lunchtime. So, no cues from their environment kicking in for the hens. I am, of course, experiencing nervous system alarm because I “know” what trucks are. This explains when you speak to hens, (or people), why you get no response. Unless the listener “knows” the experience or word to which you are referring, they will not understand you.

If you’ve lost a love one you “know” pain. Pain is not a 4 letter word you instinctively avoid. One cannot understand you or the pain of loss unless one has experienced it.

The Bridgerton series on Netflix character, “the Duke of Hastings,” marries a woman from a happy family. “Happy” and “family” are cardboard cut outs in his mind. The Duke sees those things, but “knows” them he does not. Having been abused and abandoned as a child, he’s an alien to both.

Buffy does not know what “traffic” means. “Pain” is just a four letter word to some. Sadly, “happiness” is elusive to many.

My gentle hen, Buffy, pecked by the side of the road today. The rush of traffic and the souls it harbors ebbing by. There must be a universal language, that helps us understand our world and each other? So, we can “know” love, “know” happiness, “know” danger (so we can avoid it). Maybe it’s the experience of anything is how we “know” a thing? The only way we can “know” anything?

When I started writing about hens, I had four. My experience was the Animal Farm Utopia! We all had our assignments, the hens, the people (I advocate on behalf of their well-being as ‘owner’). George Orwell would be pleased. However, my experience went from a happy, well-ordered and fruitful farm and turned into a Greek tragedy in a matter of weeks.

I had a human predilection of thinking, ‘if I just do things “right’ all the time, things will naturally go My way. I attribute to myself god-like powers by a clever thing called ‘self-delusion.’

Anyhow, I decided to take my life lessons, the humiliation, the loss, the sadness and disappointment and start being an adult. What constitutes an “adult” isn’t clear nowadays, but it’s something like: doing what you love and working through the obstacles standing in your way.

Marcus Aurelius says, “The obstacle is the way!” The route through which you become the champion, or hero, or best version of ‘you’ you can be. Likewise, Jordan Peterson says: You can’t know what you are capable of until you face the hardship, struggle or thing that you fear, avoid, hide from. You need that Jacob’s ladder experience of Jewish history, he says.

Animal farms are no place for wimps or the self-deluded. I quickly learned!

Buffy and Lady each have unique characteristics that contribute to our well-being at the farm. Another lesson I learned: You can’t be a good ‘hen’ owner without careful observation of your hens. Buffy is light and fluffy like a Marshmallow. She’s so light on her feet she looks like she’s floating!

Reminds me how ornery Sandra Bullock (FBI agent) tries to “glide” while posing as a beauty queen contestant in the movie, Miss Congeniality. Buffy is so light on her feet, she’d make a terrific ninja! You barely even know she’s around.

Walking gently is a good skill. Especially in stressful times, it may serve you and others well.

“Lady” I mentioned was beautiful and regal looking like Lady Anne Cresacre, Thomas Moore’s wife. A Hans Holbein painting is an odd reference perhaps but the concept of lady is non-existent in my experience growing up.

My mother said when she was young all the women wore gloves to cover their hands when they went out. But I am pretty sure that idea of what constitutes ‘a lady’ was a machination of the company that sold gloves.

Lady is so lovely and she never draws attention to herself. It’s like her job is to be beautiful and look after the other hens. She wasn’t a fiery John Adams personality, like Copper. She isn’t independent-minded like Rocky. Not a prize-fighting hen in the dust bowls, either. She may have other characteristics, but as she is so demure I have yet to discover them!

I think that it’s beauty like this which makes men behave foolishly. Like loveliness is a transcendent quality, men must pursue and possess. It’s built-in, instinctual. Or maybe not?

Do men think logically like Spock and say: I perceive this woman has good facial structure and therefore I choose by an act of my will to try to ‘be’ with her. I doubt it!

I bet Leonardo da Vinci was frolicking in all his self-glory to ‘be’ with Mona Lisa. Pretty sure that is why she is laughing at him. He was a genius, but probably also a serious Rooster- by hen standards. Ladies know a Rooster when they see one.

Lady gently aligns herself along side Buffy and keeps and eye out for her. She’s loyal. She’s great company! If I had such a friend I never have done half the foolish things I did growing up. Lady makes me want to be good. Because I don’t want to ruin the beauty.

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?

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Welcome to WordPress! This is a sample post. Edit or delete it to take the first step in your blogging journey. To add more content here, click the small plus icon at the top left corner. There, you will find an existing selection of WordPress blocks and patterns, something to suit your every need for content creation. And don’t forget to check out the List View: click the icon a few spots to the right of the plus icon and you’ll get a tidy, easy-to-view list of the blocks and patterns in your post.