How 53 Chickens Made Me Feel Better

I love you, Chicken. 

I didn't feel ready for the world on Tuesday morning.

The cat and I uncurled at the sound of the alarm, but the space beyond my bed seemed too harsh, too unsympathetic -- a grinding sameness that I had not signed on for. There was nothing I could do but resort to autopilot and plod into my morning routine.

When I got to work, I approached the door gingerly, hoping to ease myself into another long day. But almost immediately, a surprise sound echoed through the building -- a piercing, perfect, cock-a-doodle-doo.

I burst out laughing.

This week, the organization that I work for was called to assist in the rescue of 61 birds. This is how I came to meet 53 chickens for the very first time.

That Tuesday morning, those of us who "had some spare time" were invited to help with the mass cleaning of chicken cages. I wanted to laugh at that suggestion. We're not an organization that allows spare time, and the weight of relentless deadlines was part of what had made the day feel so daunting when I woke up. Still, chicken-cage-cleaning sounded like an adventure I couldn't pass up.

The chickens had arrived in poor health, and you could see lice crawling all over their faces and feathers. The chickens smelled terrible -- a sweet, sweaty, garbage scent.

I followed instructions to put on scrubs and to wear a new pair of rubber gloves between each chicken. Then, I got to either wipe out soiled cages or take on the fantastic job of holding chickens.

Holding chickens -- in some cases, impressive, imposing-looking roosters -- is much easier than picking one up. I have yet to successfully do that. Their wings can break if you struggle with them, so, terrified that I'd break a chicken, I'd panic and back off as soon as they started to squirm.

One time, I came close to pulling a rooster out of the top of a two-story pen. But, he spun wildly and struggled against my face. I quickly placed him back down -- but after that, I smelled like chicken for the rest of the day. An oily, smelly sheen was  smeared across my cheek and clothes.

However, none of this is meant to be read as a complaint. Once one of my co-workers would hand me a chicken, I'd hold him and feel mesmerized. Each time, the chickens would struggle and fuss and then, properly pinned against my chest and supported underneath, they'd surrender. From there, I could feel the warmth of their bodies in my arms. I could feel their hearts beating against mine.

I learned how to soothe a flustered chicken by gently stroking  its head or chin. Sometimes, my co-workers and I would find ourselves unconsciously swaying as we held our chickens, as though we were rocking babies. My friend Christy held a chicken that nestled into her bosom. He lay his head across Christy's chest and slowly closed his eyes.

After a while, Christy and I walked her sleepy chicken and my restless chicken over to a window.  Both chickens craned their necks in focused curiosity, eager to see what was going on outside. Christy and I looked at each other in shared delight. She said, "They're looking out the window." The chickens were scared, confused, and not feeling well. It meant something to us that we were giving them a small but meaningful moment.

The chickens are all headed to local farm sanctuaries, where they'll spend their lives clucking and crowing and eating and digging in hay.

I'm really glad I got to meet them. I'd love to work with chickens again. Now that I've mastered chicken-holding, I'd like to practice chicken-picking-up.

Once again, I find that the best way to recover from sadness is to help someone who's worse off than yourself.

See what it looked (and sounded) like to clean the chicken cages:

Apparently, I'm a lot to take. (Alternative title: I will be your light.)

Here, play this song while you read this entry. (Is that blog torture? Bad blog etiquette? Or is it a neat idea? You don't have to play the song, but today was the first sweet, sunny, chirpy-bird day since winter hit and I had so much fun playing this tune in my car with the windows down. Is it universally agreed upon that that is the best way to listen to music? I can't be the only person who thinks so. Playing loud music in my car with the windows open washes me in a euphoria that I feel all the way to my belly. Euphoria, incidentally, is one of the topics that we're going to be talking about today. Anyway, here's the song.)



Hi there!

Yesterday, and my friend and I took my new Beagle to our favorite coffee place--the 61C Cafe. My friend is good at lots of things, but picture-taking, not so much.

Thanks. 

Beagle picture Take 2.

Then, I went to my best friend Madge's house in Mt. Oliver. I didn't take any actual photographs there, but I sealed one into my mind at the most perfect moment: when I was laying on her couch and she was playing with my hair, and if I opened my eyes, I could see, upside down, where her peachy-colored wall met the ceiling, her chandelier that looks like it's made out of Jolly Rancher candies, and her sweet face as she earnestly told me things. I felt so happy and so lucky, I almost couldn't speak.

Today I'd like to talk about being happy. When I revived this blog this winter, I thought I was going to write a lot about depression and recovery. But much to my relief, it turns out that I'm a very buoyant person. My recovery period was mercifully short.

Nonetheless, I was sick with depression this winter. I call the illness "depression" because I couldn't stop sobbing, and the crying and hopelessness interfered with my ability to work at my desk, go to meetings, eat, sleep, get out of bed, socialize and have any quality of life. I turned my illness into my project, though, and got myself everything from therapy to a chiropractor to a dog.

The scene at my house, right this very moment.

Now I'm me again. And being me has always included bouts of random, delicious, dance-inducing euphoria.

My mom and some of my closer friends have compared me to Grover Monster, because it manifests as something like this:

I get very, very happy when I go on vacation, or see a band, or get to taste something new and amazing. Or at random times, like when the world reveals just how beautiful and exhilarating it can be. Like when the winter gives way to spring and the daylight has a golden glow and the flower buds start to push out of the mud and the air feels electric on my skin. I feel the whole burst of renewal swell up around me---the birds feel it and tweet their little lungs out, the dirt starts to smell like baby plants and every breath makes me want to grin or break into a run. I feel it in my very core.

I remember when I went to Cedar Point for my 32nd birthday. Every time I got off a roller coaster, I felt  so happy and refreshed that I felt like could run a lap around the park. It was like my brain had hit a "reset button," finally relieving me of all the burdens I had been carrying around: work deadlines, board meetings, office politics, headaches, my uptight and over-critical boyfriend, etc. I actually had to reign myself in, because 32-year-olds don't run around for no reason. Stifling my complete joy was exhausting.

For me and my (then) boyfriend.

And that's the recurring theme of my life right now. My family and friends seem to appreciate my Grover-esque ecstasy. They seem to because they want to be around me, and they want to make me happy. But not everyone can deal.

In December, a man broke up with me (VIA EMAIL. TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS) when, to my blindsided bewilderment, he could no longer "keep up the pace" of being in love with me.

Recently, another man walked out of my life, although this time, I had something to do with it. He described my personality as "happy, bubbly" and "a lot to take."

WHAT.

The first experience devastated me, and the second just pissed me off for a couple days. What is with these guys?

It took me a long time to learn to get to here. I wasn't ready to forge bravely into 2013 when it rolled in. I worked at healing and finding the light at the end of my depression. But even more so than that -- I wasn't always like this. In my teens and twenties, I was much more anxious. I was timid and self-concious and thought life's small worries were much bigger than they actually were.

Over time, I learned a couple things. I learned that everything and everyone is temporary, so we need to relish every good moment before it's gone. I learned that I am, in the best possible way, invisible -- no one is watching me being a goofball because everyone is the star of their own life. They're too worried about themselves to worry about me, so I can scream my lungs out on a roller coaster and dance in the grocery store if I want to. And I learned that there are a hundred ways to die. Letting this world pass you by without loving it, loving others, and finding joy, is waiting to die.

It's work. For me, it's work because I didn't get everything I want. I wanted to be married by now. I really thought I would be. I wanted to have a baby. I want to be able to take my family to my parents' house on holidays instead of showing up, every time, by myself. I wish my job situation was different. These things can be soul-crushingly disappointing if I let them be.

Or I can realize that I live in a beautiful, exciting city with a whole cast of clever and sparkling characters who will gladly go on adventures with me. I can teach my dog a new trick, or get dressed up and taste champagne with my friend Line, or I can stay home writing all day. I can pick Madge's brain over brunch, or I can go see Soundgarden, or I can pick through treasures at a flea market with James, or I can brainstorm new projects with Jessica. I can make out with a handsome man or I can stay home and watch Netflix with my cat or I can eat a delicious meal that my mom made. Such wonderful things!

I didn't get everything I want, but I don't have to wait to die.

So, fuck you if you think I'm "a lot to take."

I'm going to work on being like her. This lady can barely walk, but the broad can dance.