“There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.” --Douglas Adams

Greetings Dear Ones!

Well, the above quote certainly explains the state of things as I see it from the windows of Hermit Hollow. We have some running around free, who are now in grave danger and some who are still locked up safely. The ones in lockdown lament their lack of freedoms. They use every possible transition as a potential excuse for even momentary escapes. They have no idea how safe they really are in their confinement. This does not comfort them; they are still anxious. By contrast, the free ones are happily oblivious to the myriad of threats to their lives. They think if they cannot see them, they must not exist. They are free to dine where they please and to congregate at will, though they are way more aggressive, by nature, than those being confined, so they also do a lot of boxing when the mood strikes them. Occasionally, they just whoop it up so everyone will notice them.

I know what you’re thinking—I should not be discussing the residents of New Hampshire in this way. I’m not. I’m talking particularly about our sweet little crop of Spring chicks. Of the original ten, four of them have turned out to be roosters. It has not taken them long to outgrow both the pen and their charm with the ladies. They were turning into bullies. To give the hens more room, I have let the bigger roosters free range, while keeping the tiny guy, a bantam, in with the hens, who have no trouble keeping him in his place. Outside, the three “amigos” now travel together with bright-eyed curiosity around the property, exploring and having adventures. Every morning, I go out at dawn, can’t find them, assume they are dead, grieve a little… Then they see me and come running from a new hiding spot. They are quite tame and allow me to catch and hold them, feed them from my hand. They are very sweet for wanna-be murderous little rapists. At night, when I collect the hens from their outside run and bring them in their box into the cellar for safe keeping, the boys are in a row, dozing on top of the run, hoping maybe I will capture them and bring them back in the cellar too. I don’t. I can’t. So my heart breaks a little twice a day.

One of the harsh facts of farming is that multiple roosters are not needed. At most, you need one per dozen hens—if you want fertile eggs—which many people don’t. The hens will lay whether a rooster is there or not so they are actually extraneous altogether, in terms of egg production. They can be aggressive, loud, and as prone to chest-puffing swaggers and fighting as Glaswegian football hooligans. Can you neuter them? Yes. (Roosters that is, not football hooligans, sadly.) But it’s an extreme procedure that involves making an incision between their ribs, as their testicles are up inside their body cavity. We are not doing this. Neutered roosters are called capons and usually undergo this procedure so that they produce better meat. We don’t plan to eat these guys ourselves—but if they are still here in another month or two, we know of a woman who relies on making soup out of other people’s roosters for her suppers. They are good in soup, so she says.

I don’t know what else to do with them, except make them part of a food chain that is respectful, grateful, and humane. In the meantime, I want the condemned to be as happy and free as possible. If a raccoon, hawk, or fox gets them before Mrs. O’Mallett does, so be it. (Roosters are a tasty link on a lot of food chains.) So here they are, strutting their stuff around the yard and sorting out which one of them is the toughest, unaware that they will live just one, short, glorious, lilac-scented season—while their sisters will be sheltered in various forms of protective confinement with carefully-supervised free-range opportunities for multiple years to come, in lifelong bondage to us as a result of their feminine capacities—a genuine Henmaid’s Tale.

It makes me think a lot about the balance between Quality of Life and safety. It makes me consider who we value and who we don’t, who we “protect” and what sacrifices that “protection” requires from those “protected.” It makes me think a lot about the Meaning of Life—especially for us all, as we balance out these things for ourselves in our own stages of confinement or expansion. I got curious so I looked up the word “Meaning.”

It turns out that meaning came to Old English from a West Germanic word that shares an Indo-European root with the word mind. The interpretations of the word mean were “tell, recite, intend, wish, signify, convey, express, plan, or fate.” Basically, a Meaning is a Story we have to tell. Without meaning, we have no story—without Story, we have no Meaning. We create a story and transfer it from mind to mind where it may coalesce and harden into a collective belief. In our minds, we hold the stories which both tell and create our fate. We think about ourselves thinking as we think and we decide who we are by what we cherish.

There are a lot of competing stories out there in the swirling chaos of a world pandemic. Some are being told by roosters, some by hens. Some are saying that not every life has value—that some lives, some contributions, some assets are more necessary than others. Apparently, 30 percent of us are suffering from moderate to severe depression during this pandemic—is it from fear of death or fear of missing out? Is it from questioning our own meaning or value and watching all seven episodes of Tiger King just to prove to ourselves we’re not the weird ones? Is it all this isolation or is it that swim-suit season is upon us and we should have thought about that before eating our weight in failed baking experiments?

Too many people are using the word “Meaning” as interchangeable with Happiness—though it is in living out our purpose that we achieve happiness, as a byproduct of authenticity and integrity. We are all struggling these days, especially those of us who must adapt our attitudes and practices in order to continue to offer our services. We are all bewildered as we emerge and wonder how we help each other Mend from this calamity.

I went to my dear little shop yesterday and was Happy. I have begun to fix things for people who have been able to drop off or mail them without requiring in-person fittings. My work output has dwindled due to injury and apathy. I used to be able to do “nothing” in half an hour or less. Now it takes me all damn day… Gradually, I will have to get myself back in shape. It was great to be there, with the giant windows allowing both a cool breeze and the heavenly scent of the greening hillside above town to reach me. My shoulder is healing and I am able to work a little without pain. It felt good to remember What I Do, if not who I am. I thought of that Rabindranath Tagore quote: “I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was duty. I worked—and behold, duty was joy.”

I replaced a zipper in a pair of shorts for a boy. Then I was able to fix an old, exhausted pair of jeans by taking a much better pair of jeans and cutting them up to make patches for the tired pair. Why couldn’t I just give the customer the better pair of jeans? I wondered. Who decides what is wanted and valued and what is not? Why am I taking good jeans and using them to fix bad ones? Because the bad ones have value to their owner. The bad ones are Wanted. The good ones aren’t—they were three dollars in a half-price bin at a thrift store where I go to collect used clothing exactly for this purpose.

It turns out that what we value is what we claim as “necessary,” especially when it comes to protecting our previous investments. What we claim, eventually claims us. Value is “Ours, Us, We.” We tend not to value what does not serve us. Achingly, I realize that, from Levis to cockerels, Value, like Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I observe two hermits here attempt to sort three generation’s worth of “stuff” in their old barn—one thinks it is all trash, the other treasure: corroding parts of wood stoves, sewing machines, old doors and windows, all with a liberal veneer of rodent droppings. For one, each piece has a story, and therefore Meaning, that makes it precious. To the rest of us, our eyes cannot get beyond the mold and mouse mess. We don’t see the Past, we see a grim Future of scrubbing and sanding and painting—an overwhelming and fruitless amount of effort that salvage will require. What is meaningful and valuable is open to interpretation and unlikely to apply to those “not of the same mind.” We don’t have the same minds; how can we have the same Meanings? And yet, we have choices. We have choices about listening politely and learning what other people value. We can open our hearts to their stories.

Can we value the dignity and sanctity of ALL life, regardless of how long or short it may be, how “valued” or not? HOW? These are hard questions for any farmer, seamstress, or citizen. These are unglamorous questions that make me very depressed. But they must be answered in practical terms. There is no such thing as non-interdependent freedom. Life is a web.

It’s hard to work. It’s hard not to work. Doing work helps us find Meaning—it certainly helps me find stories! I am excited about collaborating on projects with people again but I am reluctant to endanger myself or others. I am in limbo about what to do and grateful to my aching shoulder for answering the problem for me for now.

Well, my darlings, wherever you may be, whatever you may choose, I hope you are happy, healthy, and just the right balance of safe and free. Thanks for your Good Work! May our Mending continue!

Yours aye,

Nancy