Monday, May 30, 2011
Fresh Writing: The Shadow
Re-draft - I love your comments so please, leave one and/or share this:
My Shadow died Thursday morning at eight A.M. Pacific Standard Time. But that's not how to tell a proper story, is it?
Let's start again.
It's Thursday morning, another day of the same thing: I'm up at five, watch the sun lift in the sky, say my prayers, drink some tea, eat a bit of lavender chocolate (okay, more like half a bar) and then it's seven a.m. and Spencer comes into my room first--a big lug of a man-boy--who bends down to give me a big bear hug.
"Are you enlightened yet?" he asks.
"Afraid not," I confess.
Ten minutes later it's Jo Jo on my lap for a cuddle and she breathes morning breath on my face as she tells me about a dream. "It was weird," she says, in her light bright voice, "it was Christmas and Daddy was coming to give me a present but then my tooth fell out."
"Do you have a loose tooth?" I ask.
"Sort of but not really," she says. She moves her finger on her front canine. Mr. Wiggly, we call it.
The sky is blue and the sun is bright. Wind blows and it's cold like March. June is just a few days away.
I re-adjust Jo so the bone of her butt doesn't rub so much on the bone of my shin. I try to be careful though because too much jostling around and she'll be gone in a flash and I'll miss a moment more of holding her tight. How much longer will I be able to hold this girl on my lap? That's what I think and then more thoughts rush in: before we leave for school, will I have time to take a shower and clean the chicken coop?
"Sweets," I ask. "What do you want for breakfast? Bagel and cream cheese or cereal?"
"Cereal!" she declares. She tugs down her pajama top--pink with a poodle sewn on. The poodle is black fabric. It's a shadow of a poodle. Dog in profile.
One more hug and she's off.
I blow out the candles at my alter and go down to take a shower, pull on jeans, dry my hair and check the time.
In the midst of all this, Spencer and I get into a fight--what is it about? He's on the computer, I think, and that bugs me or maybe he didn't clean his dishes. I don't even know but it's not good. We're both pissed off and I think he yells or I yell and that's how it is with my teenager these days. We're both fast to fire and that's no good with a teenager. We're doing therapy to catch this tiger by the tail.
"Let's just table this until we meet with the therapist," I say.
"FINE!" he yells and storms out of the house, his pack over his shoulder.
I follow him down the steps, bare feet on cold concrete--overgrown ferns in the front yard, a sea of lush brilliant green. Past the pot of strawberries and the stand of lavender, I call out how he better come back and hug me because if something happens to either one of us before we see each other again--well, that would suck.
Spencer stops on the sidewalk, just past the thick trunk of the cedar tree and pauses for a second. His head his down, chin tucked and then, after a moment of thought--he slouches back--PISSED. He hates when I play the "this might be last time I see you" card but I can't help it. Death is real. The Buddhists remind us how life is a party on death row.
Spencer hugs me but it's a bullshit hug--this fast grip and squeeze with us belly to belly since he's that tall--and as I watch him go, I get all in my head about what a bad mother I am and how I'm blowing it with him in 15,000 different ways and then I check the clock. 15 minutes before Jo needs to leave for school.
Jo is on the floor in the living room, red wool carpet under her knees and she makes a world for a small rock she calls Rockie. It's her way to avoid the conflict that fires between Spencer and me. Jo disappears into fantasy.
She has this thing where she collects brown cardboard boxes and makes houses for all kinds of things--rocks, shells, pine cones. Rockie has a three box house. "Remember to pack your snack, sweets," I say.
"I will, Mommy," she says.
"And comb your hair," I add.
"Ok," she says.
Out back, there is a deck, a hot tub with a green lid, two huge horses sculpted out of rusted metal and a chicken coop that we built snug against the side of the garage. There is only gravel out here which makes a zen kind thing to deal with the fact that very little sun shines here. As I jog down the steps, the sun that does come through today is wicked bright. I have to squint against the intensity of the light.
In the coop there is one Brahma named Sunny (Jo's girl) and my girl named Shadow. Sunny is all aggressive and pesky at the door of the coop--LET ME OUT--the way she is with her strong neck and wide chest. That damn chicken scares me to death. But Shadow, a quiet Jersey Giant, sits in a self made hole.
I know before I know.
A quiet chicken in a self made hole is a sick chicken.
In January, it was our other Brahma, Diamond. She was Spencer's girl. She was in a hole in the morning and 24 hours later, she was dead.
I scoop Shadow into my arms and feel around her behind. Is an egg bound up there? Is she hot? Is it bacterial? She is limp and non-responsive.
This is a girl I raised from a tiny little chick. When she first arrived, she was just a palm of beak and fuzz.
Chickens are supposed to live to be 11 or 12. That's what the damn urban chicken book told us but now--her she is. Sick.
Shit!
At two years old, Shadow is a big girl, ten pounds at least and she's all black feathers that shimmer green when you hold her in the sunlight. Her dark brown eyes blink in a slow, tired expression of surrender.
Denial throws up a wall and I tell myself she's not going to die. I'll think of something but first, first, I have to clean the coop right away. I ease Shadow into the top shelf of the coop, scoot Sunny into the run and rake the sand clear of poo, vegi droppings and greens. I make a pile and lift it all into a recycling bin.
That's what happens when I'm scared. I move fast and clean everything in sight. I'm scared a lot--even when things aren't scary. My house is spotless.
Add more food to the feeder, change the water and then I remember an old prescription for antibiotics I have in the house. I'll break one up, yeah, that's what I'll do but then again, I don't know. Those were for Spencer and what if it's too much?
Once the coop is clean, I decide I'll carry Shadow into the run to get a better look at her. I ease her to the ground, thinking maybe she'll just pop up and it will be okay but as soon as she is down, she rolls on her side and jerks a few times and that's it. Her dark eyes roll back and she convulses, kicking her feet. She's dying as I kneel next to her and there is nothing--not a damn thing I can do.
I call over my shoulder to Jo and ask her please, please to bring me the phone and while I wait, I stroke Shadow and tell her how sorry I am as if she blames me for being a lame chicken farmer (which I am).
In no time, Jo is behind me with the phone in her hand. Her blue eyes are wide. Her tangled hair tumbles over her shoulders.
"It's Shadow, she's dying I think," I say and try to suck it up but I can't. I start to cry.
Jo drops to her knees but she doesn't really have an emotional response. She's not a huge fans of the chickens. When her bunny died, she wailed but the chickens are big and stinky and lizard like. Jo's more of a gerbil girl.
I dial my husband but then mis-dial and then re-dial again and I wonder why in the world am I calling him? He knows less about these birds than I do. What's he going to do?
Sunny paces in this half circle pattern and she's all puffed out--her feathers lifted and full to make her twice the size. She is mix of bright white and black. She keeps her distance but makes this weird squawk sound. It's like a cluck but more primal.
I drop the phone on the ground and Jo touches Shadow's soft dark neck feathers.
"She's still warm," Jo says.
I sob, uncontrollable now and another part, the part of me watching this whole thing from the sidelines--that inner critic who is no friend--says I shouldn't be losing my shit in front of my little girl. My critic says I'm supposed to be the strong one, didn't I know? But I can't be strong right now. I can't listen to the mean-assed-inner-critic-bitch who is scarier, by far, than Sunny. I'm overcome with total helplessness, regret and skill-less-ness in the face of whatever has taken this chicken away.
Jo puts her slim arm around my shoulders. Doesn't even hesitate and I think about how solid she feels.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," Jo says.
She is the mother to me, the strong one and I am lost in how I failed, I failed, I failed.
Isn't it something the way we are--the stories we tell ourselves--and isn't this the story I tell myself every time death and I meet at this threshold? I think about deaths that have come before now. The death of my last marriage--yes, it was all my fault. When my old dog Carmel died, yes, that was my fault too--I let her down. And then when my brother killed himself, my father had his heart attack and my mother died of pneumonia--all my fault. I could have done something but I didn't and they are gone.
Why stop there? Why not go further back in time to the day I was born and my mother was so upset because if it wasn't for me, she could have had her innocence back.
Someone had to be blamed. Why not? Why not let it be me?
In Buddhism, death is called an opportunity. You can make a massive leap in consciousness just by being fully present and that is what I try to do. I try to be wholly present to all that I feel--the sadness, the regret, the story and the origin of the story. The emotion is the amazing thing. It's so powerful.
And what the hell? It's just a chicken, right?
I know.
I know.
Later in the day, I will be told, "chicken's die. It happens. It's not your fault. You're going to have to get a tougher skin if you are going to be a chicken farmer."
And I guess it's true but right now--I don't have a tough skin. I'm raw the way you get when death comes to call. My Shadow is gone and now Jo is late to school--something she hates more than anything.
"Honey," I say as I swipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. "I need to get you to school. You're late."
"It's okay, Mom," Jo says. "It doesn't matter, I can be late one day."
Sunny pecks at the phone, like she wants to make a call and I realize I have to reach Spencer. He'll be home for lunch to check the chickens and when he sees Shadow gone, that won't go well.
I shoo Sunny away from phone and dial up the school. "We should do something with her body we can't just leave her out here," I whisper to Jo while the number rings through.
"I have a box," she offers.
"Good, good," I say.
Jo runs into the house, full of purpose.
Ten minutes later, Spencer is home again and we all stand over Shadow, who has been wrapped in silk and placed in small box. Jo has added a plastic chicken and a few a shiny rocks. I covered her with rose petals. Spencer put in some leaves from a fragrant bush.
"It's like you said," Spencer finally says, "you never know."
"I know," I say.
We all stand there and stare stupid into the box. We hold our arms around each other, survivors who look at death--really look at it--and find there is nothing any of us can say. That's the way it is. Death is quiet.
Finally, it's Spencer who suggests we put Shadow over by the statue of the Buddha in order to let her body rest like the Tibetan's teach. It's believed the consciousness of a being, all beings, resides in the body for up to three days. Call me crazy but I believe in that kind of thing.
"Maybe she'll be reborn in a better place," Spencer adds.
"Maybe she's already in chicken heaven," Jo says, taking the more Christian approach.
I carry the box over to the Buddha and we all say a few mantra: Om Mani Padme Hung, the universal prayer of compassion.
On the way back to the house, I hold Jo's hand and Spencer and I hug, a real one this time, and he says he's sorry he yelled.
"Me too," I say. "Let's forget it and start over."
"Fair enough," he agrees.
Sunny, alone now--the last chicken left in the coop--pecks at the ground but that's not going to do. Chickens need other chicken's and I'm going to have to get rid of her or get more girls to re-fill the coop and start over again.
For now, I've got to get Jo Jo to school. I'll figure out the rest later.
13 Comments:
Hot tears are streaming down my face after reading this. I recently had to make the decision to put my horse to rest and it was gut wrenching. I share with you a snip it from my journal:
Lost Memo was such an amazing animal. I am still in shock over her tragic passing.
Little did I know how horses leave hoof prints in your heart. Their amazing ability to mirror your own energy. The unique way they can calm your fears and worries with a nod of their head and a puff of air from their nostrils.
They don’t judge you. They are the most amazing listeners.
How do you make the decision to end the life of such an amazing animal?
She trusted me to take care of her. I feel like I failed her....
That is all I got out that day. I just wanted to share with you
:-)
Elizabeth
Oh Elizabeth, I am so sorry! That is terrible and must have been so hard. A horse is so beautiful and majestic. I hurt with you. All this Heart Sutra has cracked open the heart--methinks.
xo
Amazing as always. You are such a brave storyteller. My braveness on the page comes largely from you. :)
My mouse died recently after I'd had her for a year. I felt the same defeat, like I could have, and should have, saved her, when of course there was nothing I could have done.
Shannon LM
Yes, the story you wrote says so much more than just stating that one of your chickens died. A sad story but a nice example of good writing. This post hit me in a number of ways. I still suffer from bad Mom syndrome. My son is 24. Every mistake he makes turns into something I didn't do right or he would certainly know better. And the chickens... I've been wanting to do the urban chicken thing but am afraid of just what you describe -- having them get sick and die or having the owls that sit in my trees eat them. One of the reasons I do things like garden, have compost bins filled with worms that I carefully feed, and have dogs to care for is that I have a need to nurture things and have them flourish as a personal testament that I do not screw up everything I touch. I smiled at the question of "Are you enlightened yet?" Certainly I believe just one more meditation, one more book of wisdom read, and I will certainly be there.
p.s. Elizabeth, I have a horse also and used to have one that died while I held his head, trying to soothe him as he struggled to get back up after a pasture accident, so I can understand how much it hurts. All animal's that you've had a bond with are difficult to lose but a horse, something about how beautiful they are when they run, it's very hard but please let go the feeling you failed her.
Anon! Hey, thank you so much. Courage is free...yes? Hard to get but I am really happy you are finding it and DOING IT! The world needs more courage.
M..oh my goodness, what a lovely comment. Thank you so much. It's great to have you here.
No one writes like you do. No. One.
And there is no one--NO. One. Who writes like you! You are the real deal my friend. Cannot wait to see your pages this week.
Anon is Shannon! Hey...thank you for the great comment and for sharing.
Jennifer:
I love the way you tell stories. Your style gets me in and I stick with it till the end. Thanks for doing the workshops.
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In order to write like that, you have to be someone who pays attention to the subtle things that go on inside yourself, moment by moment. That takes developing a sense of awareness about yourself and understanding your "inner workings." What you wrote is an excellent example of paying attention to how the external triggers internal "stuff" that we all carry around from life experiences. THAT is what makes writing so interesting to readers! Thanks, Jennifer! :)
Thank you to Linda and Susan for your comments and that is what I teach...great writing is fine...be a great writer...but more...be GREATLY aware of everything...pay attention to the details of your glorious life and your interaction, your dance with it. That's where the art lies.
Your story caught and kept my attention from beginning to end. I especially noticed the description of your daughter's predilection for boxing her belongings, including the rock, and how she provided the box for Shadow's final resting place. So fitting.
I also related to your story in a personal way because my family stood surrounding my husband's bed as he died from a brain tumor, experiencing the moment of death with our arms around each other and my hand on him. Death is profound, and it is mighty, whether it is of a man or a beloved chicken.
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