Little Compositions of the Ordinary

Two days ago, I helped move about a dozen 6-week old chicks from a small, cozy metal tub kept at a constant temperature of 78 degrees, to a large wooden stall lined with hay. To move them, I had to catch them first. So I spoke lovingly to them: "C'mon, we need to go to your new home. Don't worry, it'll be a quick move." But they were fast, either intent on escaping my talon-like hands, or playing their version of tag. "C'mon, I won't hurt you," I said. "There you go, see, that wasn't so bad." And as is typical in my way of speaking when I am enamored, I threw in several "aww's", bookending my utterances. I spoke to convey comfort and ease, my default move to create connection. I imagined the acoustic qualities of my voice holding them. That the vibrations of my words caught them, interlaced in their soft black feathers, and carried them like gentle fingers to their strange, new home.

Last Monday, on Labor Day, my daughter and I visited Silver. It was my second time visiting with Silver that week. When he entered the barn, where we would tack him up, my heart skipped a beat. I felt like a fan girl and a doting mother at once. And I let him know. I stroked his blond neck vigorously and kindly, and I said: "Hi Silver, I'm so happy to see you again. Aw, you are so sweet. Thank you for letting us ride you today. I know you'll be great with Vera." He turned his head towards us every so often, confirming that my affections were well received. With each syllabic articulation, gratitude and awe unfurled tenderly towards him. Between his occasional neighs and head turns, and my steady strokes and sweet whisperings, we choreographed the sweetest exchange of the mundane, to produce an exquisite experience of the extraordinary.

Each day on the farm, I am increasingly intrigued by how my overly complicated, domesticated habits and social proclivities are entirely irrelevant. Suddenly, when I am in the presence of a majestic creature or tiny, naive critters, all I need are the most elemental forms of kindness. Simple vocalizations of tenderness. My words don't need to be coherent, or my sentences complete, let alone clever. Empathy is visceral. Joy is felt. Each chick caught between my hands or contact made with Silver, does not unfold into knowledge but into experience. The notion of "real" that I live by, shifts into something new, something deeply resonant.

So what then do I make of the cultural prejudices and hierarchies with which I reglularly approach and interpret the world? I don't suggest abandonment of the human world. Nor do I propose any new age prescription for navigating the complex social infrastructures we've built and with which we've managed to unknowingly asphyxiate ourselves. What I am saying is, when we catch a chick, we catch a chick. Full stop. The aesthetic and acoustic qualities and felt experience are in and of themselves luxurious. Joy cannot be abstracted and taxonimized. It is hairy, pungent and elusive. It is also gentle, sublime, and loyal. It will come back. If we love it.