We call her "Frizzle." When I first moved in to the Tree House, she had already begun plucking the abundant, gray feathers that cover her once voluptuous body - marring her vibrant Self, she now looks like a haggard chick. As the days have turned into weeks, she has taken to remaining in the coop - sitting on her nest like a diligent mother, patiently awaiting the arrival of her next chick. Unfortunately, there are no roosters on hand and all her brooding will do is drive her insane as well as starved to death. Frizzle is frazzled and, like any loving caretaker, I worry for her well-beeing.
The other night, KT told me Frizzle's story. Once an award-winning, show bird, she was a Queen of the roost who has tattooed markers on her right leg to prove it. Last year, she had hatched a baby girl, and adoringly cared for her. But then a raccoon made its way into the coop and killed her baby, taking it for food without any pause for concern. Frizzle just hasn't been the same ever since. Yesterday, as I padded into the coop, forcing Frizzle from the egg she was sitting on while sadly reflecting on our predicament, a thought arose, "WE NEED A ROOSTER." Someone to fertilize her so at least, for God's sake, she can try again! "And, if she dies in the process," I told my housemate, "then at least she died trying!"
Not long after this conversation, I strolled over to the annual Historic House Fair in South Park, meeting up with my High Priestess O. and her girls. "Carat Cake!" her youngest exclaims, calling me by the nickname she has lovingly bestowed upon me, as she tossed her arms wide for a great, big hug. Slowly, we began to move to the reggae rhythms that were pouring forth from the stage. The last act of the day and, of course, it was a groovy sound led by a dark-featured beeauty. I could even hear the infamous Beastie Boy's lyrics ringing through my BodyMind, "He's just my type!" Ai. Their female promoter for the day was hawking their CDs amongst us locals. I asked about the band whose merchandise she held in her hand. "The Roosters they are," she said. "Of course they are!" I chirped in silent response. Ai, ai, ai.
On the way over to the next park and Saturday, summer concert, I shared with O. my findings. "The thing is," I told her, "that the Universe is always conspiring." "And, we can let go of holding on to any one person, or band, or moment, or whatever. We can allow the experience to bee received, fully. By acknowledging it. Honoring it. Loving it. And then, LETTING IT GO." The era of our pain and suffering is long past.
NOW, WE FLOURISH. With Roosters and Chickens and Birds of All types. With men and women, sisters and brothers, children and senior citizens. With all creatures, great and small. With an Earth-based ethos and AUTHENTIC POWER as our guide. WITH TRUE LOVE AS OUR ONE AND ONLY TRUE NORTH. So shall it BEE and SO IT IS.
(ZION IS HERE.
Yes, she is.)
