Fog Hollow Art Studio
Reflections
Reflections
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Lessons from Baby Ducks
I am often asked the question, “What does a chaplain do?” Well, I am not sure what my counterparts do, but in my years in this capacity, I have been know to take an
unconventional approach to nurturing and supporting the spirit, to maximizing the quality of the life I am honored and privileged to companion. So it was not out of the
ordinary a few weeks ago when I took a baby duck to the home of a patient who, throughout her lifetime, had loved nature. She had grown up in the heart of Amish
Pennsylvania. Nature was one of the elements of her spirit. In her lifetime she had traveled the world, experiencing and painting the wonders of nature beyond the
quiet sanctuary she now occupied. I call it a sanctuary because it was a treetop sort of space she had deliberately created. From her lofty perch in a room with lots of
windows and skylights, she could be among the trees she loved and watch birds flying to and from branches to feeders just outside her windows. And it was in this
sanctuary where together we watched the changes and wonders of each season savored their beauty and witnessed the awe and wisdom they offered. So it made
perfect sense to visit with a baby duck. Bird, nature, spring… and I happened to have a few, because, with the first sign of the lacy canopy of emerging leaves, and the
smell of the damp spring earth, something stirs in me and reminds me of the hope the season holds, and every spring since my grown children were very small, baby
animals were welcomed on our little farm.
My patient knew there was something up as the duck’s loud peeping could be heard even before I had climbed the stairs. The cruelty of a debilitating and unkind
disease had rendered her unable to move independently, speech was difficult, but when I entered the room her smile was radiant and her eyes were filled with hope.
For a moment she could move away from her illness and visit the essence of spring, revisit past joys, and witness the hope of a new season. The little duckling, just
being a duck, nestled in the curve of her neck; it’s softness and warmth welcome and savored. For a while we sat together and watched and, ourselves; enjoyed just
being. And in those quiet moments we shared awareness - that this gentle, brand new life, even in its newness and innocence, held valuable lessons of wisdom for
us about journeying through life. They were there for us to discover together.
With birds, before birth, a tiny tooth called an egg tooth forms at the tip of their beak and they instinctively know to use that little tooth to peck away at the shell of the egg,
in a perfect circle and it is always at the wide end of the egg, and they peck and rest, and peck until the circle is complete. And I know they never doubt that they did the
job well, pecking thought that egg. They don’t experience anxiety saying, “Hmm, did I do that right?” And they instinctively know they need to rest, to take quiet time in
the struggle to accomplish their birth. They know they will need all the energy they can store to face the world and its challenges. All animals seem to know without
question, anxiety, or fear, know with acceptance, that life is what it is. It seems they have the acceptance we struggle to find. As my patient and I reflected we realized
that to make its way through birth, and life’s challenges, and eventually its own passing, this duckling would need to draw from its resources contained even before
birth, in that tiny egg – courage, trust, determination, and hope. This little baby duck had all these within, and we do too. We have to look inward to find them and trust
that they are there. We have become so enmeshed in the cacophony of sound and activity in our lives, that we sometimes lose sight of what we hold within us to
make our way through the challenges of living. Animals seem to have an advantage over humans. They can just be. And humans think too much. As you came
together this afternoon, you drove here with thoughts – perhaps anticipation, anxiety, fear about what to expect from this time together. We are here just to be, to share
a reverence for the loved ones we honor.
That baby duck, in its purity and innocence had no idea what its simple presence might offer its world, or what would be discovered or shared that day in the sun-filled
room or what might be passed on to others some future day. It was just being a duckling. Just trusting its instincts every step of its journey. Just being, but perhaps
more aware than we of the gentle gifts of living it held within. I gently encourage you today to tuck these lessons from baby ducks somewhere in your heart. Trust that
you have within you what you need, rest when you need to, and just be.
I am often asked the question, “What does a chaplain do?” Well, I am not sure what my counterparts do, but in my years in this capacity, I have been know to take an
unconventional approach to nurturing and supporting the spirit, to maximizing the quality of the life I am honored and privileged to companion. So it was not out of the
ordinary a few weeks ago when I took a baby duck to the home of a patient who, throughout her lifetime, had loved nature. She had grown up in the heart of Amish
Pennsylvania. Nature was one of the elements of her spirit. In her lifetime she had traveled the world, experiencing and painting the wonders of nature beyond the
quiet sanctuary she now occupied. I call it a sanctuary because it was a treetop sort of space she had deliberately created. From her lofty perch in a room with lots of
windows and skylights, she could be among the trees she loved and watch birds flying to and from branches to feeders just outside her windows. And it was in this
sanctuary where together we watched the changes and wonders of each season savored their beauty and witnessed the awe and wisdom they offered. So it made
perfect sense to visit with a baby duck. Bird, nature, spring… and I happened to have a few, because, with the first sign of the lacy canopy of emerging leaves, and the
smell of the damp spring earth, something stirs in me and reminds me of the hope the season holds, and every spring since my grown children were very small, baby
animals were welcomed on our little farm.
My patient knew there was something up as the duck’s loud peeping could be heard even before I had climbed the stairs. The cruelty of a debilitating and unkind
disease had rendered her unable to move independently, speech was difficult, but when I entered the room her smile was radiant and her eyes were filled with hope.
For a moment she could move away from her illness and visit the essence of spring, revisit past joys, and witness the hope of a new season. The little duckling, just
being a duck, nestled in the curve of her neck; it’s softness and warmth welcome and savored. For a while we sat together and watched and, ourselves; enjoyed just
being. And in those quiet moments we shared awareness - that this gentle, brand new life, even in its newness and innocence, held valuable lessons of wisdom for
us about journeying through life. They were there for us to discover together.
With birds, before birth, a tiny tooth called an egg tooth forms at the tip of their beak and they instinctively know to use that little tooth to peck away at the shell of the egg,
in a perfect circle and it is always at the wide end of the egg, and they peck and rest, and peck until the circle is complete. And I know they never doubt that they did the
job well, pecking thought that egg. They don’t experience anxiety saying, “Hmm, did I do that right?” And they instinctively know they need to rest, to take quiet time in
the struggle to accomplish their birth. They know they will need all the energy they can store to face the world and its challenges. All animals seem to know without
question, anxiety, or fear, know with acceptance, that life is what it is. It seems they have the acceptance we struggle to find. As my patient and I reflected we realized
that to make its way through birth, and life’s challenges, and eventually its own passing, this duckling would need to draw from its resources contained even before
birth, in that tiny egg – courage, trust, determination, and hope. This little baby duck had all these within, and we do too. We have to look inward to find them and trust
that they are there. We have become so enmeshed in the cacophony of sound and activity in our lives, that we sometimes lose sight of what we hold within us to
make our way through the challenges of living. Animals seem to have an advantage over humans. They can just be. And humans think too much. As you came
together this afternoon, you drove here with thoughts – perhaps anticipation, anxiety, fear about what to expect from this time together. We are here just to be, to share
a reverence for the loved ones we honor.
That baby duck, in its purity and innocence had no idea what its simple presence might offer its world, or what would be discovered or shared that day in the sun-filled
room or what might be passed on to others some future day. It was just being a duckling. Just trusting its instincts every step of its journey. Just being, but perhaps
more aware than we of the gentle gifts of living it held within. I gently encourage you today to tuck these lessons from baby ducks somewhere in your heart. Trust that
you have within you what you need, rest when you need to, and just be.
Mary's Courage
Recently a horse named Mary came to our farm by way of a draft horse sale in Iowa. Our friend, Terry had purchased her for us there. Mary had come to the sale with
another horse as part of a team. All we knew was that, as a team, these two horses had been together all of their lives. They had lived, slept, eaten, played and worked
together, side by side, each and every day from the time they were foals. But, sometimes teams are separated at sales. And Mary’s life-long partner was sold to some
else. If anyone wonders whether animals feel emotion this should prove they do. When this lifelong partner was led away from her, Mary was deeply and profoundly
distressed. She screamed in the tormented and haunting way only horses can. Terry told us that she looked for her teammate in the sea of other horses as the distance
between them grew greater, and beyond. And she cried for him for hours afterwards, desperation so clear in her eyes. All the way from Iowa to Pennsylvania, Mary would
not eat or drink. When they stopped at a farm in PA to unload some horses there, and so that Mary could stretch her legs, she stood alone in a far corner, away from the
other horses, head down, still clearly and profoundly grieving. When Mary arrived at our farm her eye was dull and very sad. I spent quiet time with her in the days after
she arrived and in those hours the extent and impact of her loss became painfully evident. In those quiet hours with her I learned many things about her. Her body told
the story. The marks of harsh treatment spoke a sad truth about Mary’s past and what it must have meant to her to have her beloved teammate by her side. Somewhere
along the journey of Mary’s life, she had known cruelty at the hand of humans. Mary’s coat is jet black. But there were several places on her body where the beauty of her
black coat was marked by two lines of small distinct dots of stark white hair. And a streak of white hair creates a striking contrast in her otherwise black mane. Having
studied equine science before becoming a chaplain (like all chaplains do), I knew these marks told a story of anguish, fear, and struggle. When there is severe injury
that penetrates deeply through the layers of skin, the hair that grows back is unpigmented. The pattern of white dots clearly indicated severe injury by chain links. The
white streak in her mane told of very hard work with a poorly fitted collar. And all of it told me that anyone who would allow this type of injury probably also used a whip and
hard hands. My heart saddened for her with this awareness. And a further awareness was that, through all of the physical and emotional trials she had endured, it was
likely her teammate was beside her, her only protector. It became clear to me why she grieved this loss with so much pain and sorrow. These two horses shared a
journey that bound them uniquely together in life. Mary had probably sought his protection and empathy as she tried to escape the brutality, and it is likely they were a
constant comfort and support to each other. Without a doubt, they stood together, weary from hard farm work at the end of each day. And, without a doubt they shared
their food as the sun set, and woke each morning reassured and grateful for each other’s presence.
So why this story of Mary? Well, the reason is because 1800 pounds of muscle that has suffered scarring abuse, cruelty, and profound loss could just as easily have
responded to life with anger, bitterness, fear, and hatred - 1800 pounds of it. But Mary, somewhere along her arduous journey, found the capacity for acceptance, and the
gentleness to make the decision to hold on to what is good. Mary has not forgotten her loss. I can tell you, horses are not the brightest creatures in nature but they do not
forget. But, in the days that have passed since Mary arrived, a light has returned to her eyes, and her eyes hold kindness, not anger or bitterness. Her heart seems to
hold a capacity for hope that life will be kinder. Trust is not easy for horses, especially when trust has been violated by cruelty but Mary is beginning to trust again that
there will be gentleness offered her. But I am most touched by Mary’s courage to reinvest in life and her willingness to risk new relationships with her new family, a
thousand miles from her life-long friend.
The greatest advantage animals seem to have over us, is that they don’t seem to need answers to unanswerable questions. They don’t seem to need to make sense of
the senseless. But they do seem better than we are at putting things back in order. If we heed Mary’s story, we can learn from her that we can find peace when we can
find our way through renewed hope, gentle acceptance, a willingness to trust, and quiet courage.
Recently a horse named Mary came to our farm by way of a draft horse sale in Iowa. Our friend, Terry had purchased her for us there. Mary had come to the sale with
another horse as part of a team. All we knew was that, as a team, these two horses had been together all of their lives. They had lived, slept, eaten, played and worked
together, side by side, each and every day from the time they were foals. But, sometimes teams are separated at sales. And Mary’s life-long partner was sold to some
else. If anyone wonders whether animals feel emotion this should prove they do. When this lifelong partner was led away from her, Mary was deeply and profoundly
distressed. She screamed in the tormented and haunting way only horses can. Terry told us that she looked for her teammate in the sea of other horses as the distance
between them grew greater, and beyond. And she cried for him for hours afterwards, desperation so clear in her eyes. All the way from Iowa to Pennsylvania, Mary would
not eat or drink. When they stopped at a farm in PA to unload some horses there, and so that Mary could stretch her legs, she stood alone in a far corner, away from the
other horses, head down, still clearly and profoundly grieving. When Mary arrived at our farm her eye was dull and very sad. I spent quiet time with her in the days after
she arrived and in those hours the extent and impact of her loss became painfully evident. In those quiet hours with her I learned many things about her. Her body told
the story. The marks of harsh treatment spoke a sad truth about Mary’s past and what it must have meant to her to have her beloved teammate by her side. Somewhere
along the journey of Mary’s life, she had known cruelty at the hand of humans. Mary’s coat is jet black. But there were several places on her body where the beauty of her
black coat was marked by two lines of small distinct dots of stark white hair. And a streak of white hair creates a striking contrast in her otherwise black mane. Having
studied equine science before becoming a chaplain (like all chaplains do), I knew these marks told a story of anguish, fear, and struggle. When there is severe injury
that penetrates deeply through the layers of skin, the hair that grows back is unpigmented. The pattern of white dots clearly indicated severe injury by chain links. The
white streak in her mane told of very hard work with a poorly fitted collar. And all of it told me that anyone who would allow this type of injury probably also used a whip and
hard hands. My heart saddened for her with this awareness. And a further awareness was that, through all of the physical and emotional trials she had endured, it was
likely her teammate was beside her, her only protector. It became clear to me why she grieved this loss with so much pain and sorrow. These two horses shared a
journey that bound them uniquely together in life. Mary had probably sought his protection and empathy as she tried to escape the brutality, and it is likely they were a
constant comfort and support to each other. Without a doubt, they stood together, weary from hard farm work at the end of each day. And, without a doubt they shared
their food as the sun set, and woke each morning reassured and grateful for each other’s presence.
So why this story of Mary? Well, the reason is because 1800 pounds of muscle that has suffered scarring abuse, cruelty, and profound loss could just as easily have
responded to life with anger, bitterness, fear, and hatred - 1800 pounds of it. But Mary, somewhere along her arduous journey, found the capacity for acceptance, and the
gentleness to make the decision to hold on to what is good. Mary has not forgotten her loss. I can tell you, horses are not the brightest creatures in nature but they do not
forget. But, in the days that have passed since Mary arrived, a light has returned to her eyes, and her eyes hold kindness, not anger or bitterness. Her heart seems to
hold a capacity for hope that life will be kinder. Trust is not easy for horses, especially when trust has been violated by cruelty but Mary is beginning to trust again that
there will be gentleness offered her. But I am most touched by Mary’s courage to reinvest in life and her willingness to risk new relationships with her new family, a
thousand miles from her life-long friend.
The greatest advantage animals seem to have over us, is that they don’t seem to need answers to unanswerable questions. They don’t seem to need to make sense of
the senseless. But they do seem better than we are at putting things back in order. If we heed Mary’s story, we can learn from her that we can find peace when we can
find our way through renewed hope, gentle acceptance, a willingness to trust, and quiet courage.