Copper Chronicles

My head feels like it is going to explode today NOT because I have Head Explosion Syndrome which would be an excellent excuse. My head is going to explode because, despite my best machinations, again, nature has defeated my attempts to tame it.

“Nature” is too big a word, I think. My attempt to outsmart Rat has been defeated. Rat is part of natural world – he is part of nature, but nature must mean myself, too? Right? As I am part of the natural world.

I find it confusing when people think of themselves as above and separate from the natural world and its inhabitants. It is likely easy to do, if we are not practiced at viewing our values and their effects on the natural world surrounding us and the other inhabitants in it.  

Barak Obama breathes the same air as do we all; Bill Gates wakes up by the same sun; the physical processes of wealthy man are the same as poor men, requiring similar sustenance and activity for good health.

The modern age is confusing because no one seems to be self-regulating. Seems like there is no system of thought in place to prevent the powerful from the most egregious errors. It’s like such people are flying blind.

For example, I felt rather certain that Rat served no useful purpose in my enterprise. He gives me the creeps because well, he creeps. He is designed to creep. He scavenges.

Scavengers serve a useful purpose, however. Perhaps I have been too hasty in my judgment? Squirrels gather maple seedlings every fall in my yard, for that I am grateful. Rat gathers crumbs at the hen’s food dish, food that may get soggy in the dirt and be wasted anyway. Ben Franklin insists “do not allow untidiness in appearance or habitation” because, well, the creepy things that ensue. Of course, that makes sense in retrospect.

The reason my head is going to explode is because, well, (I must admit this for mental health purposes. There is something redeeming about honesty) I put extra hay around the hutch to protect hens from the bitter winter winds. While I was doing it, I wondered whether I was overthinking this. Do hens naturally stay out all winter, carefree from cold? I doubt that is true.

Still, I had a sense of doubt about my actions which I reasoned to be not worth pursuing. Hay? What ill can become of a bit a hay?

Anyhow, the extra layer of hay has been like a Florida condo for Rat. He lives in the hay, rummages his way to the hens’ food dish, (scavenging crumbs on his way) then dives back in the hay pile. The happiest creature I have ever beheld! He has been doing this all day!

Has Rat left the dirty underground life in the shadows to live with the rest of us folks in the light of day? Who would think a rat would be happy? He is happy.

My head is going to explode. That is NOT what was supposed to happen.

Anyhow, the point is, if we cannot allow nature to do what it does sometimes, which is to defeat and humiliate us, then we are not being honest. If we are not honest we can not be good human beings. We cannot govern our own selves; we are certainly not capable of governing anyone else.

I do not know what will become of Rat, or the hens. But I think I better listen more carefully to the cautionary signals I experience. There is certainly more to this world than what my natural mind can logically explain.

And, to further repent of my snobbery to the sleek rodent, there is NOT a whole lot going on to be happy about these days. A rat having fun in the hay makes me happy, despite how much disapproval this will brook in all quarters.

“What a pleasure to have such gentle and beautiful creatures grace my yard with their presence,” I thought all last week.

This week, however, it is hens at war. The hens experienced their first attack- air bound predators- and fled for safety. Rats are raiding the hens’ food and deterring the hens from eating. The cold is weighing in heavier each day.

My pen has insufficient air cover. I was distracted by the glittering, glowing Van Gogh-like world we experienced last week. Add secure hen pen again to my long list of things to do: “Priority.”

If Copper was alive, she would chase rat most aggressively and it would NOT come back. Chip the Chipmunk learned quickly not to cross Copper.

I see value in Chip, the chipmunk. Chip is diligent about his work, a good example for us all. Chip chewed through the so-called “chicken security wire” reminding us to “test” everything we hear and not to accept claims at face value. Claims like: “Chicken security wire.”

Squirrels are orderly and ambitious, gleaning the ground of pine-cones every fall, reminding me to prepare for winter. They are expert and humble neighbors. In SHTF episodes, squirrels don’t knock at your door begging supplies. In fact, I suppose most squirrels are better prepared for a disaster than most human beings.

Rat has no value that I can see. It looks like a cross between a squirrel and a mouse. Not cute like a mouse, nor ambitious like a squirrel. Not friendly like Chip.

My internet search of rats turned up a freaky fact about flexible skulls, that can squeeze through tiny spaces. A runty, slithering, shapeshifting creature scaring my hens and stealing their food. My gentle hens shrivel at the sight of it! I am not judging. My select choice of adjectives alone is giving me the creeps. God help me if rat was eating my dinner!

So to encourage myself, I go to my list of sources:

What would Copper do? Get about getting rid of that rat. No question. It is my duty.

What does Pericles say? We do the difficult with the end goal of what we love in mind. (Of course, he sounded much more impressive and Greek- statesman-like than I do.)

Marcus Aurelius says: The obstacle is the way! We prove ourselves and our capabilities by NOT shrinking in the struggle of life, but rising to the occasion.

Winston Churchill viewed defending England in WWII with Emperor- like determination and courage. A willful, obstinate refusal to except defeat or failure for his people.

Neuroscientist, Dr. Caroline Leaf, says a brain is like a supercomputer. When you decide to accomplish a task, it goes about finding solutions to the problem. With your words you can “turn on” or “turn off” your brain’s awesome capacity she says. If I say: “This is too hard, I can’t do this!” Brain takes the day off.

SO, I have to say: the rubbery skulled, ugly thieves don’t stand a chance. If I have an inner Copper, an inner Pericles, inner Marcus Aurelius, I must have an inner Winston Churchill, too.

It occurred to me I have an inner Jesus, as well. Perhaps in future I may just go to the top for my example. Start there. (He being the embodiment of every virtue, all courageous acts, all-wise, all-merciful, kind.) Yes, I’ll start at the top next time. You can’t underestimate yourself when you have an inner Jesus!

Rats: Behold your Lord!!

My mom is carefully watching my two hens, hunting and pecking in the overgrown garden outside the kitchen window. The scene is a fulfillment of a dream, to see my mom enjoying the hens instead of watching the world she knew completely disappearing on the news. Hens are a happy diversion. She looks with eagerness like a small child in wonder and speaks of memories growing up when she had hens.

I’ve never been a mother or a hen, but I notice the instinct to be a mother hen. Mother and hens are happy today. Me, too. Copper would be pleased. She worked diligently everyday, caring for her friends, and enjoyed the fruit of her labor. It only lasted a few precious hours, however. Rats!

My hens are hiding out today which rather unnerves me. It is unsettling because hens have their own wills and don’t do what I ask, when I ask them. I discovered that in an earlier post. Hens are not cardboard cut-out characters in a story of my imagination. I do not exclusively own the narrative that is my life, neither do I make all the rules. That is called a “fantasy,” I believe.

In my head, hens are charming and agreeable pals and we enjoy adventures together. True. But in my head I discovered a not accurate idea: the fiction that anyone, hen or human being, should be what I want them to be, or do what I want them to do, when I want them to do it.

It is not clear why I am disappointed with my discovery. Nobody consciously believes that to be true. Do they? Except maybe politicians and CEOs.

Maybe human beings start off with an unformed idea of what life is like, then by education, religion, cultural agendas- for good or ill- their perception of ‘reality’ is formed. Or maybe the world imposes an existence so difficult that one cannot solve it by human strength or reason alone? Like children trying to solve complex math problems (unless you are a brilliant genius at math), people flounder. Finding meaning takes second seat to paying bills and putting food on the table.

Whatever the cause of us living in a kind of underworld of our making, where we make the rules and are accountable to no one is a fantasy and a lousy one. There can be no authentic love, no absolution, and no genuine liberty in that existence. There is only what our sensory perception and imagination tells us to be “real.” We have to look beyond our own selves and our own imaginations to find what is true, and beautiful and good!

Time to play “Find the Hens” now. My hens hideout is the most enormous, most prickly, most tangled chaotic bush in the yard. An overgrown forsythia the size of a swimming pool. I’d need a chainsaw to gain access. Fortunately Buffy is an oat enthusiast, and loyal Lady stays close by.

Time to come home hens! Oats!

My two beautiful hens, Buffy and Lady, gave me a needed lesson in resilience today. Snow, rain, and frigid temperature. They looked remarkable in the bitter wet weather, at home, like chickadees in winter.

Built-in to birds is a survival mechanism to handle winter. Chickadees not only survive but enjoy the icy landscape. Sometimes you can here them singing on even the coldest days. Likewise, the hens enjoyed this glorious, damp and icy day with effortless grace.

I am having  the kaleidoscope experience again- seeing the brilliant colors in an infinite array. The world is alive and ever changing. If you have the courage to see it.

I wonder if Van Gogh had hens who led him on journeys of exploration? Or perhaps he had a nervous mother with Head Explosion Syndrome like me? That may explain his frantic way of painting. That is not criticism of Van Gogh’s work, rather a tribute. He may have been frantic- a word that sounds related to ‘panic.’ But I think Vincent was breathless by the beauty he was experiencing and shared it shamelessly. Like every muscle in his body strained with feverish excitement. Like Leonardo de Vinci tried to capture Mona Lisa. But he doesn’t capture her entirely.

Vincent’s love of beauty seems innocent, without any buffering agent of vanity to confine his work. Leonardo may not have been able to ‘see’ Mona Lisa as she really was, because he did not want to see any disapproval of him in her eyes. (The painting exposes himself as much as it does her.)

I think her look in the famous painting is she and de Vinci calling a truce. He must content himself within his human limitations, avoiding pride and vanity, her timeless gaze advises. Isn’t that what women have done for ages? In Old English, “wife” and “wise” look like the same word. A bit of wisdom lost in the revolution, perhaps.

I wonder if the world is really as beautiful as it seems to me today, in this chilling experience of light, color, cold and hens! Or is the frantic nature of my experience right now heightening my sensory perception?

Seems like human beings have a built-in survival mechanism, too. The ability to experience beauty as an antidote to chaos.

Mom asked me an existential question today. She winged a Creamsicle at me yesterday and not because she thought I wanted one. I better pay attention to this, I thought. She is trying to say something. She was frustrated, speechless, unable to communicate what is going on inside. Finally she focuses her aim and says: “Why does evil exist??”

She has been asking me for years to explain that to her. She is asking the right question, I believe, too.

Why evil exists and how to think about it correctly and courageously may just be that which stills that roiling ocean that goes through all our beings. The one that drives people to insanity or to a lesser degree compels us to “get our house in order” like mom. Uncertainty can compel all kinds of behavior.

There are scientific explanations for human behavior like compulsive cleaning. Therapists offer “behavioral modification” techniques. Drug companies can help neurological problems in our brains, fortunately for me.

But the problem of evil isn’t solved by a scientific solution. This must be true because many evils in history were done in the name of science. Evil, uncertainty, fear are immaterial things. Scientists can not cure problems in this realm, despite all their theories and measuring devices. How does one measure Horror? There isn’t a pill for that.

So evil supersedes us- that is- it must come from somewhere that is beyond our material world and beyond our sensory perception. (And therefore we are subject to it to the degree we are ignorant of it.) The ability for us ‘to know’ that evil exists with our minds suggests our minds have been dramatically underemployed when it comes to solving the problem of evil.

My mother wanted to know why evil exists? What am I going to tell her? How do you define evil? She added to her focused interrogation: “And how do we decide what is evil or good?” Mom continues to describe her uncertainty and anxiety like this: “What is roiling in your guts? Is it love or fear or hate? What is That?? Would we like it if our behavior was reciprocated?? Don’t people ever think that?? Why not??”

When I wrote Hens and Mothers I was correct. Mom appeared to be experiencing this roiling, which is why I described her as an ocean storm roaring about our house. Organizing, reorganizing, so everything is some where else. Our home is like a kaleidoscope- every time you look in it, everything has changed around. Some days she’s like a bolt of lightening with crisp and terrifying criticism. Angst. Roiling, unresolved thundering that need answers.

We say mom is like a barometer in the weather as storms throw her off balance. Likewise, she is tuned in to another frequency when it comes to the struggles and storms of the soul.

What is the language of this realm of experience?

Evil must be a distortion or opposite or impostor of some greater reality. That is what I think. Fear, chaos, the ‘unknown,’ and the human behavior that emerges as a result proves their is a great gulf of knowledge in our world. Knowledge about the opposite of those things: instead of fear, love. Instead of chaos, order. Instead of confusion (and lies which create it) there is truth.

Last summer I enjoyed happiness with my hens Copper and Rocky, and my two gentle and beautiful hens, Buffy and Lady. And peace. But, Beyond all my best planning, tragedy ensued. Copper died and then Rocky. My storm began, my struggle. Like mom, I have been searching for words!

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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