Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Oak Tree and the Yield

“So, he says to me that he has more experience than I do…that he knows more about it. And I’m thinking, ‘Oh, really? So it’s already starting, huh? How he knows more than me. It’s already starting…”

My friend is looking at me with raised eyebrows, her head nodding in affirmation of her words with a little tsk-tsk in her tone. She might as well have her arms folded across her chest because I can hear it in her voice. She’s planted her proverbial feet in a solid stance. She’s ready for a fight.

She’s talking about her boyfriend, and their relationship, she admits, is tumultuous. I sense that this incident she describes is not uncommon. In this moment, as she details their exchange, I can see that she very clearly believes that he is wrong, wrong, wrong in saying that he knows more. And that she is right, right, right in saying that he doesn’t.

She presents this scenario to me formed in a kind of question. Like, what do I think about all of this?

For one, I’ve been standing in her same lead-footed posture myself. I’m certainly not immune to being stubborn or self-righteous. But experience has shown me that oftentimes digging my heels in on a dispute will quickly turn my firm footing into quicksand.

In the emotions of an argument it can be hard to see this truth, though the struggle that almost invariably ensues (i.e. a war, of sorts) makes it obvious that if my stance were genuinely strong, there would be no struggle.

Sitting across the table from my friend, this is all quite clear.

“So, why don’t you just agree with him?” I ask. “He says he knows more. And he has done it before and you haven’t, right?”

“Right.” She nods with some hesitation.

“Why not just agree with him? You can say, ‘You’re right. You have more experience at this than I do.’ Then that’s the end of it. You just yield. There’s no fight.”

“Well, I guess the time for sarcasm will come…”

“No, I’m not talking about sarcasm. Really. It’s just the facts. He says he knows more. He wants to hold that over you as a prize or something. Let him. It’s the truth. He has more experience. Ok. You can agree. Give it to him, no fight. And then, if he knows so much, let him show you how it’s done. You can say, ‘Hey, can you please help me here, you know more.'”

As I speak the words to my friend, I know they are for me. The freedom of a weight lifting is actually palpable, as I suggest simply letting go of defending her position.

This is not a doormat mentality that I’m proposing. It’s more like the Aikido approach. Aikido (translated as “the Way of unifying with life energy”) is a martial art that aims to “blend with the motion of the attacker and redirect the force of the attack, rather than opposing it head-on. It requires very little physical strength, as the practitioner ‘leads’ the attacker’s momentum using entering and turning movements.” (thanks Wikipedia)

This conversation with my girlfriend and my rudimentary knowledge of Aikido philosophy have been rattling around in the back of my mind for a few days now.

And then this morning, I come across a post from The Daily Groove by Scott Noelle. He offers daily perspectives on progressive parenting. Today, his “Unconditional Presence: The Oak Tree” came into my Inbox. It describes the essence of the strong and powerful oak tree. How it just is, with no need to defend.2013-03-10oak

“Now imagine that you are the Oak Tree… How does it feel to be so powerfully positioned? Isn’t it nice to know that no one can uproot you? Would you even bother to resist? Or would you simply relax and enjoy being right where you want to be?

Next time you feel “uprooted” by your child’s behavior, emotions, or any other conditions, remember the unconditional presence of the Oak Tree. Stand rooted in the ground of infinite Well-Being.

There is nothing to resist… All is well.” (Scott Noelle’s entire post can be read here)

This morning, I see the strength of the yield and the power of being rooted, as one and the same, though my words can’t seem to pin this essence down.

Perhaps it is that yin-yang. The Tao that has been written around, but not about, because as soon as you start to define it, you’ve missed it. Now that’s mighty!

Powerfully present. Rooted, yet yielding.

I was once in the presence of a ‘healer.’ People came from around the world to be with him. My experience, was indeed, mystical and healing, though he spoke very little. At the end of our group’s time with him, he had some parting words. And since he had hardly spoken, I was soaking in every syllable he uttered. Desiring some new bit of information from him – some radical revelation – I listened intently as he delivered a few brief sentences.

“If you want to know about the meaning of life, look to a tree.”

To be honest, I wanted something more than that advice. But I was so moved by being with this teacher that I contemplated these simple words for days. Years later, here they are again.

Thanks to The Daily Groove for the Oak tree reminder, too. And thanks to my friend for fighting with her boyfriend and complaining to me about it. I needed this prompting!

The beauty of the amorphous dance of the Oak tree and the Yield.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 6 Comments

For the Birds

Maybe I should have known better.

That if we are crafting our lives through our thoughts and words (and in particular, if we are typing them out into the ether through the internet), then one should be careful what one says.

Two days ago I titled a post “I Guess the Chicken Comes First.” Little did I know that my tongue in cheek remark would have me wishing I could eat my words (no tastes-like-chicken jokes, okay?).

For those of you just tuning in, here’s a catch up:

The Bohemian found an orphaned baby chick last week and try as he might to leave it to its fate with the rest of the tens of thousands of wild chickens that have invaded our island, he just couldn’t let it die. Besides, it immediately imprinted upon him and followed him everywhere, chirping incessantly.

Now it chirps incessantly from a box in our living room. Not because it is unhappy, but because this lone chick misses its clutch. He (yes, Jeb and the Bohemian think it will grow to be a rooster – ugh!) is simply lonely.

Rest assured, our little feathered friend is thriving. He grows daily (pooping more and more by the minute – did you know they say that chickens poop 30 – 40 times a day? Oh goodie!) and has already outgrown one cardboard box and been upgraded to a plastic storage bin.

Everything I’ve read about raising chickens has offered tips on how to get the chickens to let you handle them. The advice is to use food as a means to lure them in to letting you pick them up. Such is not the case with this guy. Whose name, by the way, is Merlin, as in King Arthur and the Grail. (We’ve been using the TV series “Merlin” – a Hollywoodish version of the King Arthur legend – as a reward for Jeb doing nightly flash card exercises. Magic and Merlin are in the air…)

courtesy of Wikipedia
courtesy of Wikipedia

Or in my hand. Which is my point. I’ve been looking for advice on how to keep a chick from crying every time you walk out of the room. Yes, this little one wants to constantly be held and wants to see a body (no, not a shirt hanging on a nearby chair – he knows the difference) at all times. If left alone, he will chirp the distressed peep that repeats in anxious constants and definitely grates the nerves.

During the day, this can be doable – sort of. Yesterday, I worked at my desk from home. I set him up in his clear plastic bin next to me. I even placed a small mirror in his box so he could look (and subsequently peck), at himself. He warmed under his lamp. Pooped on top of the little, stuffed animal lamb I nestled in the corner. He tweeted his low, happy chirps, content as can be.

But leave his side to get a glass of water? It’s loud chirpy “where are you?! where are you?!”

As I said, during the day this is not always pleasant, but it’s at night that it’s intolerable. No one wants to wake to that alarm at 1am. Though, the Bohemian did sit next to him for about an hour in the middle of the night, trying to find some way to soothe him and then sneak away back to bed.

For the last two nights, we’ve managed to get a whole night’s sleep by simply wrapping him up in a towel so that he can’t see. Much like being under his mother. Then we cover the box so it’s dark and put the lamp above so that the heat still permeates his area. So far, it seems that if he’s in darkness, he’s happy – and sleeping.

I am suddenly realizing that I have written many words here on the details of parenthood with Merlin. This I am not necessarily proud of (and did I just refer to myself as a parent to a chicken?). In fact, as I’ve mentioned in my previous post, I’m a little embarrassed that we have a chicken at all. It’s not quite as bad as deciding to hand feed a cockroach as a pet, but on this island, wild chickens are not held in much higher regard. In fact, I’ve heard the locals call them rats with wings. You follow?

So this is how I rationalize it. Jeb has been begging for a dog for three years. For this, we are not ready. Zelva the turtle was no substitute last summer. He could hardly cuddle her and she was always hiding. Merlin can teach him some basic take-care-of-a-pet tasks and he loves to be held (at least for now).

Most importantly, this chicken in my living room scenario is only temporary. He’s got a few more weeks in the box and then he makes the transition to the outside world. We’ll make it smooth and easy for him, but he’s destined for outdoor turf. All I can say, is that if he’s going to rule this roost, he better do it quietly (hah! you scoff…)

I still have a silent hope that he’ll turn out to be a hen. Man, I really don’t like those strutting roosters with big claw spurs and fleshy red, flopping cock’s combs.

In the Merlin series we’ve been watching, the premise is that King Arthur is constantly protected by Merlin. Arthur thinks Merlin is only his simple servant, but really, he is the most powerful wizard in the world. Merlin keeps this secret to himself, but the viewer can see his magic coming to the aide of Arthur in every episode.

File:Holygrail


I’ll keep this in mind with our newest family member. That sometimes there are forces at work of which we are unaware. Sometimes there is more than what we see.

Right now I do see a pretty cute little chick-a-dee. And I see myself, right there, at his service. I’m laughing in all the ridiculousness. Wondering how in the world it came to be that I am driving down the road with a chicken in a sock.

 

2013-03-16merlin_cupholder

2013-03-16merlin_sock1

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 3 Comments

I Guess the Chicken Comes First

I may be a mother but my newborn-baby-waking-through-the-night skills are less than honed.

So this morning I’m sleepy and my little writing routine a bit altered.

I’ll just say it plainly: I sit here typing with a chicken in my lap.

It’s a small chicken. A baby chick, to be exact. And it seems as though it has become the newest member of our family. With it, comes all of those care taking duties – feeding, holding, poop cleaning-uping. And, as with most little ones, getting up in the night when they cry. Which this one does about twice a night, so far.

To be honest, I’m slightly embarrassed to write this post and publicly admit that we’ve adopted a wild chicken. This was not planned. However, it appears as though my husband bears a streak of St. Francis and he continually finds himself crossing paths with strays.

Last June it was a turtle he discovered under the tree in our backyard (Zelva the Turtle stories here). This past Monday, it was a runty chick, which now chirps quietly within the folds of a towel, warmly nestled, here in my lap as I write.

I’m shy to proclaim our adoption just for the mere fact that our island is over-run with chickens. Every gardener’s nemesis, these pesky, feathered foes, dig up new sprouts, make a mess of freshly mulched trees, and the roosters sound their cocky crows at all hours of the night. My farmer friends have been known to lose all veggie peacefulness, suddenly becoming blood thirsty when faced with the threat of insidious chickens scratching near the garden fence. Needless to say, I have not yet uttered a peep to them about our chick.

Which we think is a rooster, by the way. My least favorite gender of the flock.

But the story goes that the Bohemian was planting trees one day, (surrounded by scavenging wild chickens, of course) when the chirp of one particular bird got his attention. There, all alone, was a small little fluff ball, so weak it could barely stand. Only enough energy to sound its little plea, non-stop. When he went to it, it quickly imprinted on to him. Following him around, trying to get on his pant leg. It even mustered enough strength to climb the three-foot pile of soil in an attempt to get closer to him- peeping all the way.

The Bohemian could see a mother hen with her new babies nearby. He tried to get this little one to go to her. But as he approached, she ran, her babies scattered, and the runt could not keep up.

With more work to do, the Bohemian left the pots and the chick, working in other areas of the farm. But by day’s end, as he and I made our way to home, we stopped by the soil pile one more time to see if the chick was still there. He was, indeed, in the same spot as before, still chirping and barely standing. He ambled to the Bohemian as soon as he came into sight.

At that point, it seemed apparent. Take him home and save his life, or leave him there to die.

I don’t know if I can convey the extent to which this land is invaded with chickens. I am not exaggerating when I say that it would not be uncommon to see a rooster simply walking down the sidewalk, downtown. From this perspective, many would suggest that to “save” a chicken is far from noble. Some would say it is a disservice to the community.

So make fun of us if you will. I’m laughing at myself. When at 3:37am this morning, our little friend is chirping the “I’m cold!” call. The one that repeats in a monotone, much like a mini-car alarm. He has the heating lamp and towels in his little cardboard box, but sometimes in the early morning chill it’s not enough. Besides, he’s a flock-by-nature kind of animal and sometimes wants a little company.

I’m not ready to wake. I was already up with him at midnight. So we wrap him up a little snugger, lower the lamp a bit closer, and the Bohemian suggests music. Maybe he’d feel more at ease with some low sounds.

There I am, in the dark, in bed. The little “I’m content” chirps are now sounding from the chicken box, while Hindustani sarod music plays softly from Bose speakers aimed in his direction.

Good God. Don’t tell anyone.

Merlin1

 

* Ironically, I wrote a post about two weeks ago using the chicken/egg metaphor and posing the age-old question of which comes first.  Was this a harbinger to come?