Fly Like a Chicken
Last Wednesday was a big day at my house when Alice, Cookie, Queenie, and Adelaide moved out into the chicken run next to the beehives.
My four Amerouacana chicks made this leap to the outside world after living in a DIY brooder in the living room for five weeks. During that time they’d grown from peeping puff balls into bird-shaped creatures with increasingly beautiful feathers. It felt somewhat ceremonial as I lifted each of them into their new home—a sturdy four-by-eight-by-six-foot structure built by a friend.
The chicks strutted about the space like the teenagers they are, peeping among themselves as they investigated the roosts, the feeder, and the watering container. Enticed by mealworms, they learned how to clamber up the ladders toward the snug little coop, where they spent their first night out of the house. (And yes I went outside at 3 a.m. to check on them. Of course I did.)
During the following days, I was surprised by how much I missed them indoors.
I’d had no idea how much fun they would be when I first brought them home from the feed store. There’s the adorable fluff stage, of course. And the therapeutic benefits of chick holding, which I wrote about last month. But they demonstrated so many other engaging behaviors: Peeping, pecking, and wandering about. Falling asleep on their feet and toppling over. Learning to perch in their brooder and on my arm. Lolling about in the pine shavings like 1950s pin-up girls as they pantomimed dust bathing. And my favorite—their extraterrestrial twittering as they fell asleep each evening in a fluffy pile under the warm glow of the brooder bulb.
But by last week, they were knocking over their water and pooping a lot. During afternoon hopping practice they flapped and flapped as if they believed they could fly. And they could, sort of. But in the process, they banged into the screen over the brooder and kicked up so much dust that it was impractical to keep them inside any more. So out they went.
Watching them poke around in the straw of their run, I realize that the chicks are on their way to becoming chickens.
If all goes according to plan, I’ll have eggs by the end of the summer. I’d become so caught up in the day-to-day chick rearing, that I’d lost sight of that goal. Remembering it might help ease this transition.
Other transitions abound. Spring flows toward summer and people have begun to travel again. Covid restrictions ease and we change our behavior. I’ve launched one writing project into the world and have a new one underway.
I’ve always struggled with change. I’m uncomfortable when things are no longer what they were but are not yet what they’ll be. It’s like being in a boat, crossing from one shore to the other, but I’ve never learned to enjoy the ride. It’s not unlike the state of teenage chickenhood—an awkward stage of becoming.
This particular moment seems harder than usual.
Are we dropping Covid protocols too soon? Will we remember the lessons we’ve learned this hard year about kindness, compassion, and sharing? In my own life, will I be able to stand by my values—as a writer, an introvert, and a human being?
Last week on the chicks’ second day outside, a storm blew down the Gorge and pelted the yard with a cold rain. I dashed outside to check on the girls and found them pacing around in the straw like a bunch of happy chickens, not bothered at all. (And yet, hours later, a single large fly created a major panic.)
I sat for a while and watched them preen their new feathers. Alice, always the boldest, looked at me, cocked her head, and made a sound that was somewhere closer to a cluck than a peep. Here they were—learning to navigate their new space, grappling with the unfamiliar and all its possibility.
In this season of change and transition, I’ll try to take a page from the chickens. I’ll put some faith in my new feathers and move forward into the unknowable future with hope. I’ll keep flapping and hopping and believing in my potential for flight.
