Chicken Shift for the Soul

The retreat site my company used to lease for self-development programs was situated near fields that had been farmed for generations. Rich, black soil produced corn, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes and more. The fields spread out to the horizon, dotted here and there with small enclaves of trees, barns and occasional homes. Cows wandered about congregating at hay feeds, providing ample supplies of fertilizer. On days when the farmers distributed this dried and pungent supply over the fields with tractor driven arms of steel, the aroma floated on the wind for miles.

I was a city gal to these folk, many of whom – most, actually – had lived in this rural area since birth. Their personal lives revolved around the climate cycles; yearly seasons coupled with proper weather conditions determined the daily priorities so on fertilizing days everyone went about their business without any disruption. If they even noticed the acrid aroma they never complained about it. I, on the other hand, seemed always to be caught slightly off guard; on a perfectly beautiful, crystal clear day in early spring a sickening stench would suddenly assault my nostrils. Why do they choose to spread manure on such a beautiful day as this when people want to be outside? Exactly. That’s why the farmers are in the fields doing what they’re doing, you silly city slicker. It’s a perfect day to spread manure.

Now, as any local dweller can attest, there are lots of different kinds of manure used for fertilizing: cow, horse, pig and chicken. Almost any kind will add rich nutrients to the soil. Cow manure gets used a lot; horse manure used less, and on really special days they roll out the chicken cast-offs. The first time I smelled that smell (it’s unforgettable) was at the local gas station where I had stopped at to fill up. Opening the car door, I thought there might be something terribly wrong somewhere nearby. I asked the teenage attendant if she knew what the stench was.

“Whew! It’s potent stuff,” I commented. “Smells different than other fertilizing days,”

“Yeah, but it’s still shit – just chicken shit today.” She started pumping my gas.

“Chicken shit?” I lifted my nose to the air. So that’s what a chicken farm smells like.

“Yeah. Pretty bad, huh?” She followed my gaze. “Believe it on not, you get used to it after a while. It’s actually my dad’s farm down the road. The stuff’s really good for the soil, but it’s so concentrated you can’t use it all the time, else it would destroy the crops. It’s real strong.” She paused as she replaced the nozzle in the gas pump. “But when the wind’s movin’ it can sure smell like shit around here.”

Eventually I got used to the smelly days. They’re a great metaphor for life. Certain days are just “fertilizing” days. Out of the blue, on an otherwise seemingly normal day, something will happen and suddenly there’s a metaphoric stench. Days I deem difficult, unfair or overwhelming are generally days in which I’m being strengthened, nourished or refined. Remembering the promise of future “crops” helps me accept the “aroma” of the inconvenient or painful event. When a smelly day erupts from nowhere I remind myself to:

This volume contains a collection of commentaries accumulated over the past decade. Culled from monthly newsletters sent to clients, students and curious on-lookers of my generally unorthodox, sometimes irreverent and most times self-revealing observations, they chronicle the fertilization process that has helped to produce the rich soil of my life. Some personal chicken shit for the soul; insights sprouted from the reflective process required to decompose daily events, shifting do-do into data.

As I sorted and sifted and edited, a theme emerged: the search for an understanding of the nature of love as reflected through relationships, especially the relationships with family, specifically my sons. Quite against my own desires the book morphed into a sort of memoir.

My life has been no more interesting or difficult than most, and a lot less than some. It has, however, seemed to serve as a beacon to a rare few who have told me that the stories I share during workshops and retreats – my analogies and interpretations of why things happen the way they do sometimes – have helped them to untangle their own emotional wiring. I use personal examples of the concepts I teach because it helps me untangle as well! I try to make sense of things because, basically, I’ve found life to be a rather baffling sort of experience. Rich and rewarding to be sure, but somewhat like shooting rapids on a long river. It can become tiring and confusing indeed. Yet, it is a remarkable ride worth the effort required to navigate the maelstroms and messy moments inherent to living.

Everyone needs a beacon to steer them from unnoted shores and unseen shoals. I wrote these observations as a way to support and maintain contact with clients and friends, who often forward them on to others. Much to my amazement, over the years I’ve heard from people scattered across the globe. May this book travel as widely.

As a direct result of Harvard professor Harry G. Frankfurt’s recent New York Times bestseller, On Bullshit, I dared to include so coarse a word as “shit” in the title. While I recognize that there may be some people who could recoil (if you’re one of them, get over it), I have rarely backed down in the face of potential confrontation. And while the term “chicken shit” has developed a rather derogatory connotation, the word itself is fairly main stream these days and the euphemistic implications dovetail nicely with the intent of this volume: to both strengthen and nourish one’s spirit by shifting one’s focus.

I had reason to require both this past year as I compiled and corrected my previous columns: my husband and I barely escaped death in March 2005 due to a carbon-monoxide leak in our home. We lay unconscious for several days before being rescued. Since I write about that experience herein I will not go into details now. Suffice it to say that the road to recovery has been a steep climb since that event. Certain things have fallen into place, even as some previous priorities have slipped from my plate. Much has altered, both inside and out.

Recently, after making some final corrections to the manuscript, I had reason to re-read my own words: I was in a low place, doubting my value, doubting the climb, wondering if this thing called life was really worth the effort. I don’t get those days often. But this day was a doozey as my mother would say, and I am pleased and strangely humbled to be able to say that I was both comforted and strengthened by what I read that day. In fact, my own words – so far removed from my immediate experience at that moment– melted the iceberg of fear I felt in my heart that particular day. This gives me courage to commit this collection to print in a frozen format and offer you, the reader, not platitudes but fresh perspectives that may help you, too, on days when you find it difficult to remember why you’re working so hard, or running so fast, or feeling so deeply. All of us forget on occasion and all of us require reminders. It’s called being human.

Readers will find no claims of truth herein. The following essays reflect a few interpretations of one woman’s life journey. Hence, the only truth they may convey is rather suspect since it’s all mine. (And startlingly so in some places. Italicized sections reflect journal entries or personal poetry from similar time periods.) Having been blessed to facilitate so many workshops, retreats and seminars over the years I know this much: that people, no matter how successful or how defeated, yearn for one thing--to know that their life matters and that they have left a garden in some corner of the landscape called life.