THANKFUL FRIDAY

I don’t know what triggered me. Wednesday morning, I was walking Josephine in the park and thinking about the Grand Canyon. Then I started thinking about my Gold Star Family pass and how to describe my relationship with J to people; how he was not so much a nephew as he was a little brother. Then everything bubbled up and I was back in that moment on my yoga mat when Mom called. Everything from that moment flooded my cerebral cortex. The sound of my mother’s hysterical voice. Our friend Cindy explaining to me what happened. Me saying “but he’s okay right?” Poor Cindy had to be the one to tell me he wasn’t alright. Then I was crying while walking Josephine through the park as I missed all of what I have lost starting with J. I got home, fed the dog and headed out to the chicken pen to let the girls out for the day and immediately noticed that there was something wrong. White feathers littered the pen and I could see Foghorn’s lifeless body. At that moment, I felt everything inside of me sink down into a dark pit.

I have been staying just afloat of a layer of depression for weeks now. I keep telling myself that I’m just tired. I just need to readjust and get used to being back from traveling. I just need to eat more leafy greens. I’m not exercising enough. I’ve just got to try a little harder. I slap a smile on face and head out into my day and pretend. The homicide of Foghorn was the final pin I needed to deflate my raft. My mood was not improved with my scooter ride home either. Heavy rains caused flooding on the street that I take home. Cars were stopping in front of me. Cars were going around me or cutting me off. Each time a vehicle passed me on the right, where the deepest part of the water was, their car would send a wave of water over me, soaking the right side of my body. I’m pretty sure after the third wave, I yelled out “All of you all can go fuck yourselves.” It was a dangerous and cold ride home, but I made it. Then I looked out the kitchen window and only saw three chickens and Foghorn’s white feathers scattered around the pen.

And I can’t believe I am so sad about the death of a chicken.

So, I gave myself some time to wallow in all that I have lost, which is a lot. I’ve lost a lot. I’ve lost a whole chunk of my heart. So much so, that I am surprised the thing still beats. After a bit of wallowing in my losses, I got on my yoga mat and practiced a true savasana; the act of dying. I laid down on my mat and started saying goodbye to this life and all of the people in this life. I was unable to finish my goodbyes before my timer chimed to end my practice. I have a lot of people to say goodbye to and this is how I patch my raft. I take a moment to remind myself of all that I have. I flip the coin over, changing the focus from lost to found. When we bought the chickens, I convinced Michael to buy an extra one in case one of the little chicks didn’t make it. We never intended to have four chickens. Yet, nothing happened to any of those baby chicks. Foghorn had a very good six years of life before her homicide and that scooter ride may have been awful, but I made it home.

My heart may be missing large chunks, but it is still beating.