Jane's Medicine Tree

On this Week 2 of Twelve Secrets of Highly Creative Women blog-circle, I thought I’d be writing something along the lines of the Creative Style Inventory in the current chapter. And about embarking on my  Winter Feast For The Soul 40 Day commitment to a spiritual practice for peace. And about the inspiration I found this morning by knocking on the doors of several of my blogging sisters’ homes and being finding myself welcome to a virtual “cup of tea” and into a heart-opening chat.

Well, creativity comes in many forms, and I suppose when it comes down to it, our creative responses are at the heart of our human nature, and have everything to do with mysteries of life and death.

Heading out to chop wood to start a fire, I noticed that one of our hens was in a nesting box. This was unusual, because most of the hens aren’t laying right now, and the large ones that are, are laying downstairs in a dark corner of their hen house. My daughter Amri went to check in on her, and discovered that the hen in the nesting box, Mouse, was dead.

Let me tell you about Mouse and her five fellow large hen “sisters”. They are of a breed called Gourmet Black and one Red Ranger), bred to be meat birds. They bypassed their fate a year and a half ago, because they were too small to be butchered. We took care of them while their owners were away, and my daughters fell in love with them. We ended up buying these six birds, and also received the Black Star laying hen, Yikes, at that time. These were our first chickens. I cannot tell you how grounding they were for our family, especially as we were transitioning from our home on Vashon Island to who-knew-where. The girls have spent hours upon hours with these hens (and the five pullets we raised from chicks this past spring), naming them all, and discerning everything about them, personality and appearance-wise. The chickens have inspired stories, songs, poems, and artwork, and blogging. My 14-year-old daughter Amri is especially deeply in love with these birds. And that love has inspired her to read everything she can about chickens and chicken-care (and she is now incredibly knowledgeable), and to expand outward to read about raising rabbits, ducks, geese, sheep, goats, and more. She has plans to breed and raise miniature chickens, and other specialty poultry. We just need to find our larger space (where we intend to build a passive solar home, grow organic veggies, grains, and herbs, and homestead a bit).

We are no strangers to death of chickens–everyone we know who has chickens has lost at least one to the various fates of chickens. We knew the dangers of getting attached to them (all twelve!). Chickens can fall prey to raptors, raccoons, dogs, illness, whatever. And our six original hens, bred to be heavy and short-lived (as in, to be butchered in their first year), were prone to problems before long: bumblefoot, and (in Mouse’s case) wheezing. Still, we counted ourselves fortunate that none of our chickens–chicks!–had died in the year and a half that we’ve had them. Until today.

Mouse was a dopey and sometimes a mean hen, but we loved her anyway. Yes, she bit off a piece of Bluestar’s comb (which earned her expanded name, Bellatrix LaMousemeat–or was it because big thick eyelids?), and she was terrified of us all of her life, and she got her feathers burned off under a heat lamp. But she had her unique ways, and we got to know them intimately and appreciate her style, even if she exasperated us at times. Difficult to the end, she jammed herself into the nesting box this morning, so I had to dismantle it (the nesting box) to get her out. Talk about creativity–I had to figure out how to keep thinking clearly so I could problem-solve how to get her out, even as we were grieving the shock of her death.

Creativity continued. So, she’s out of the nesting box, and heavy in my arms. What do we do now? The ground is too frozen for us to dig up to bury her. We’ve never lived in a place with frozen solid ground before! I nix the idea of putting her in the fridge. Finally we place her (in a plastic bag) in the small quinzee that Amri built from snow, and fill the whole thing with snow and ice, and pack it in. Hopefully the former quinzee will act as an ice box until we can figure out what to do on a more permanent level.

A song slips into my mind. One that we learned in our Festival Group back on Vashon that is for honoring the dead, and that is a children’s song.  We learned it from Lucinda Herring’s Festival Guild offerings.  She may have written it–I’m not sure.

It suddenly seems very appropriate. It appears in the box under this second picture of Mouse.  Yes, the girls have scattered dried chamomile–the ‘posey’ that’s available to us right now–on Mouse’s ice cairn. Also, I’d like to point you to Amri’s Farewell To Mouse on our Plain Old Chickens blog. And be sure to read two of our pullets’ perspective (via Amri) on the event in Mookie And Kooshie two hens who are friends blog. I must also mention that the other chickens were worried and sad when I brought Mouse out–truly! They made their worried purring noises, and all hurried into the hen house. They stayed there for quite some time, quiet.

Finally, in honor of Mouse, I’d like to share how inspiring she’s been in our creative life. I’m writing a children’s magical nature novel, with assistance (especially with the chicken sections) by my daughters. Here’s how Mouse appears in my book.

excerpt from Because Of The Red Fox by Jane Valencia

[note: the main characters are Shell and her two cousins, Annie and Santa (nickname for Samantha)

They crossed the street,. proceeding with traffic. In another block —

Annie gasped. Santa shuddered in delight. Shell choked on nothing. There it was! Magic Mouse: Chickens Unlimited, Chicken Everything Store, and Toys! A large brightly painted sign depicting a barred chicken ("Perhaps a Plymouth Rock," Santa noted.) announced the shop. They headed down some steps to the lower entry. When they entered, the door made little clucking sounds, announcing their presence.

What they saw was most unusual! Behind the counter and perched on a chair, was a black-and-white chicken--exactly like the one on the sign--with a slightly strange comb.

When they approached, the chicken said, "Hmm?" then jumped off the chair and ran to hide behind a shelf of chicken books.

"Hm," Shell said, reflectively.

**** [and from a later chapter]“

Scurrying through the shop, they waved good by to the sisters and the hens. At the shop entrance, Santa paused to gaze thoughtfully at Mouse, who now had tiny glasses perched on her beak: “They would be worried about foxes. They’re so delicious looking.”

Mouse jolted in fear, as if grasping Santa’s words. Her glasses tipped off her beak. She nudged them back in place with one of her gnarly claws.

“Er, tact, Santa,” Shell said. “It helps to have a little tact.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Yeah, you’re right of course. Sorry, sorry!” She called back.

And they stepped through the door to Magic Mouse: Chickens Unlimited, and found themselves — it took Shell a moment of dizziness to place where they were — back on Vashon, at the bus stop just north of the library and across the street.

“That’s some Express bus,” Shell said, turning to her cousins, whose eyes had grown wide.

******
Thus endeth this long post! Thanks for reading.
~ Jane