Chickens and Dickens

Last night I dreamed of Little Dorrit. She's my Easter-Egger chicken. She's still just a chick but in my dream she was her beautiful, full-grown self. She ran to me to be picked up, tired of being in a coop and treated like a common chicken. I felt her soft nut-brown colored feathers and saw her puffy cheeks before she buried her head in my arm.

My pretty little chick has the most mellow and sweet disposition. I got her, along with nine other chicks (Rhode Island Reds, Buff Orphingtons, and Red Stars) from someone who ordered them by mail from a hatchery. As I drove them home in their tiny box, one chic kept chirping loudly. I wanted to pull over and hold her, but it was a hot day and they needed the water I had ready for them at home. The cry baby was Little Dorrit. For the first few days she continued to cry now and then until I carried her around in my apron pocket. Now that she is about three weeks old, she sits on my shoulder to nap, completely camouflaged in my hair. I heard her "purr" today. It sounds like a rolling, soft chirp and sounds extremely content.

I call her Little Dorrit after the Charles Dickens novel of the same name. Her calm, sweetness reminds me of the heroine of the story.

Last winter, as I was starting a sewing project, I began listening to the audiobook. As the first paragraphs were being read, I had to put down my work and just listen. My life was about to change; I knew it, and wanted to soak in every aspect of the delicious process. Have you ever been in a dark barn at noon? Imagine slowly opening the heavy creaking door to return to a meadow of brightness and fragrant grass. That is what I felt as the words were read. The words weren't revealing any profound truth. They described the heat and sun of the South of France. How could that change my life?

A while ago, I cut off TV, most movies, and even listening to the radio. It all happened gradually, in response to having watched a popular crime drama one night. After viewing it, I had to ask myself why in the world would I find that entertaining? It was a collage of the sickest aspects of human existence, sensationalized and sexualized, being play-acted by pretty people and punctuated with commercials for toothpaste, insurance and a bowel-movement-inducing yogurt. Lovely. I realized I had just wasted an hour of my life, not to mention all the previous hours wasted on the same mental garbage. It made me angry. I felt like such a fool.

Compare that to Little Dorrit. The masterpiece painted with the skillful reading of well crafted words absolutely transported me. I followed Dickens as he beckoned me to the South of France, to the debtor's prison and the to hilarious Circumlocution Office. Within ten minutes, I joined the ranks of his admirers. Within ten minutes, I felt my senses sharpen, my soul expand, my world change.

My pretty little chick is a reminder of these contrasting experiences. She reminds me that I could have missed my days with Dickens, missed that chance to expand. Had I not turned off the screaming world with all its miserable counterfeits, a new world would not have opened. It is a beautiful world, a fun world...where you can hear the purr of a chicken.

Artist

Here is my apology to the fine art world. My experience is my own, and not a blanket that encompasses the entire world of fine art. There is beauty there, somewhere, but I don't have it for myself, yet. I'm still not prepared.

I was born with a slight gift for art that I worked for a time to develop. I got pretty good. I stood on the threshold of Fine Artist and put my toes in the door. People urged me to go in.

I have not been drawing or painting for some time. This may appear to be a shame or a waste. But is it?

As I stood on the threshold I saw some things in the room before me I did not like. Now, I know that I am the only one to furnish and outfit the room I saw, and that not every budding artist would see the same scene, this is just a description of what I saw.

In the room, which was small and dark, were the tragedies and inhumanities of the world begging to be expressed. There were immoral teachers and others of authority, whose lust for my youth, beauty and talent would only be satiated with my destruction. The room was intriguing to me, I saw it as a way to prove my strength and worth. I spent many years squinting to adjust my gaze as I looked in the dim space.

As alluring as the dark room was at one time, there became, even more so, a bright world shining at my back.

And one day I turned.

I felt the warmth. I began to lean into it, until I eventually found myself running wild in the green land under the sunshine.

Out in this sunshine I saw things more clearly. The true artist was awakened. Teachers arrived bearing platters overflowing with delicious experiences. On the trays were Joy, Hope, and Laughter. Each one consumed would reveal others. Through this nourishment I began to create.

I created a peaceful home of beauty and learning. I created physical and emotional strength. I created loving relationships. I created children. Sure, lots of people create children...but do they allow the wonder of childhood to chip away their crust of pride, do they give in to the magic? Not that I can see. I created a life permeated with true art and inspiration.

Can you see how I would come to the opinion that ANYone can slap some paint on a canvas and act mysterious enough to hook a selection of weak minds? I don't know how to express that without sounding condemning. People of that realm are fulfilled. They need not follow me. But I feel the desire to let them know I am not fooled. Clearly, the emperor has no clothes. And today I pause at the edge of his parade just long enough to get a good belly laugh and think, "Whew!" It coulda been me out there in my birthday suit!

Someday, when I return to the dark room, I will have no apprehension about running through the door, for I will carry the light that reveals beauty. Someday.