Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving
—Mary Oliver, “Bone”
What do you regularly look at, touch and love? For me, for the past two weeks, it has been the eight little chicks living in my office. They inhabit a recycling bin in a far corner, and are kept warm by an incandescent lightbulb and a seed starter heatpad. More feathers show up on them each day, and when they flap their wings, they fly. It’s short-lived, though—it’s kind of a flap, fly, flop maneuver. But yesterday, one chick flapped and found herself outside the bin, where she stood still and silent, uncertain what this new world was all about, this world outside of the bin, this world she didn’t know existed. But now she does, because she touched this outside-bin-world and saw it. Before she could get into much trouble, I put her back, and she nestled herself into the flock.
Little chick in the office.
Each therapy session, I try to hold a chick. Sometimes clients do, too. When I make a little nest with my hands, and hold the chick close, she radiates soft warmth and falls asleep. My initial intention was to have this flock be more comfortable with humans. Our first flock was handled so much that they still let us pick them up and hold them as older hens. All those girls are gone now. Skunks, hawks, foxes, weasels, possums and even the neighbor’s dog have killed our hens since we’ve been raising chickens. I often get asked if we eat a lot of eggs, and certainly we do, but not enough to justify nearly 20 hens. Really, we just love chickens.
I need to own my part: I love chickens. And when I hold one in the nest of my hands, I feel comforted by her. A part of me softens, warms and feels more secure. I understand now, that my initial intention of acclimating the flock, really is about this comfort I feel when holding a chick. There’s something special about touching an animal that’s not a pet dog or cat. Maybe it’s the feathers instead of the fur, or the scaly feet, or the busy-ness of their behavior (anything and everything fascinates them), for chickens, as domesticated as they are, have a wildness—an if-I-were-bigger-than-you-I-would-eat-you wildness. Cue the velociraptors, for if I were to fall asleep in the chicken yard, I'm convinced they would eat me. But it would be an act of honor, for with each peck, they would be ingesting my love for them.
Ok. This is getting weird.
Maybe one day, I’ll do a forest bathing session in the chicken yard. I’ve already had requests for this, and so when the weather is warmer, and the yard is more cleaned up, I’ll set up a chicken yard bathing event. Don’t worry, if you fall asleep or lie down, I won’t let any of the hens eat you.
Until then, I invite you to join me at Stone Quarry Hill Art Park on Saturday, April 25, for a two-hour forest bathing experience infused with the spirit of play. This session is for adults who want to let their inner child roam free for a bit, reclaiming a sense of wonder and curiosity, offering respite from busy adult lives.
Noticing the warmth of the sun.
When you forest bathe with a guide (no getting naked here, or rolling around in the dirt–unless you want to roll around in the dirt, but please, don’t get naked; in fact, at this time of year, the more layers of clothing you wear the better).... So I’ll restart: When you forest bathe with a guide, you are giving your mind a rest. You don’t need to think of what to do next or what the agenda is. I take care of that. You can give the thinking part of your mind a respite and settle into being.
Forest bathing is a sensory invitation to be curious, wander and explore. There can even be play and creativity. And all of it is a suggestion, or, as we are trained to say, an invitation. You might be invited to touch a tree, feel the rough bark with your fingers or the tip of your nose. Or, you might be invited to notice the warmth of the sun on your skin as you wander across a field.
What do you regularly look at, touch and love?
This Spring season, let it be something a little wild. And if it eats you, remind yourself, it is ingesting your love of it.
Until we meet in the wild (or in my office with the wild)....
Warmly,
