Coming Back to Life

On Heat Waves, Baby Chicks, and the Fragile Work of Tending What We Love

“I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life”
‘Coming Back to Life’ by Pink Floyd

We’ll get to those lyrics…I promise. But first, a little journey to share where I’ve been since my last post on June 21st.

As a newbie gardener, I listen to the wisdom keepers who have years of experience in gardening in my zone 6b. To say that these days have been a hot mess for gardeners is putting it mildly. Many of us experienced the brutal heat wave and have stories to tell. The scars it left on parched earth, wilted plants, not to mention the toll on animals whose bodies simply couldn’t endure the heat and succumbed to it.

My beginning chicken group told stories of much heartbreak, as one post after another conveyed the pain of losing flocks of birds that, for some, had become like family. That’s no judgment if they don’t become that for you. I spent long summer days on a dairy farm where my favorite calf was here one minute and gone the next. No matter how much crying I did, it wouldn’t bring her back. But the work of the farm continued on by a grandpa who had seen enough of farming to know the fragility and unpredictability of who thrives and who fails to do so, and as much as he tried to warn me of that fragility, I still fell in love with them.

I had joined that chicken group months ago in preparation for baby chicks that would soon be joining our little but growing hobby farm. To be honest, I’ve joined several groups, purchased books, followed chicken experts on social media, taken notes, and overplanned and overprepared. Some might say obsessed, but if you knew the 5-year-old Karla who worried if baby squirrels were safe in their nests during storms, you’d understand. It’s a lifelong connection to nature that eventually led me to start a non-profit spay/neuter clinic, which is a story for another day.

Today it’s about the baby chicks and overgrown cucumbers and lyrics by Pink Floyd, because, like I often say, I’m building a bridge where they all will connect.

The zone 6b gardening expert said, “Don’t fertilize, don’t prune, don’t harvest—just water, water, water.” I did just that, paying particular attention to the plants that looked stressed. Watering at dusk didn’t stop the sweat from pouring down my body as I watered the plants. Besides shading a few of the more fragile plants, there was little more I could do, except say a little prayer for their survival as the sun began to peek over the horizon each day.

It was in the middle of that wave that I received notification that my chicks were available at the hatchery. I’m not gonna lie, I almost declined the order of baby chicks. Because it’s not the overgrown cucumbers or the heat that kept me away from writing or showing up for all of you who follow me.

It was the urgency of tending to family needs that, over the past two years, has led me to press pause in order to be present when the situation demands it.

I know no other way to do it—this pressing pause to focus on that ‘one thing.’ I’m in awe of creators who share their struggles and life stories, but I simply cannot. For one, that ‘one thing’ isn’t my story to tell. I’m a witness to it, one with an important role of guarding the rails to ensure progress continues forward and loved ones feel seen and supported. It’s a vital role, but I simply lack the ability to do anything other than see what’s on the horizon and, using my intuition, experience, and knowledge of the situation, help prepare so we not only survive the incoming waves but also thrive in spite of them.

I re-read that paragraph, and I see it—it’s vague, ambiguous and nebulous.

But Beautiful Soul, it’s all I have.
It’s who I am.

I invite followers into this space to help deconstruct and heal from Christian patriarchy. It’s a lifelong journey, one that I, too, am on with you. Showing up with more vulnerability is something I desire. For now, this is what vulnerability looks like to me. That is a recurring theme in my life, and one that we will revisit, together, as time goes on.

Back to the baby chicks.

I didn’t reject the order. I drove to the hatchery and collected my chicks. I had carefully selected the breeds weeks earlier, and now I drove them home to a brooder that had been waiting for their arrival. I wasn’t sure how I would add their care to a full plate, but something told me the time was right to bring them home.

It turned out to be the right time, indeed, and exactly what we needed, especially for a grandson who, like his grandmother, feels deeply towards animals and needed the distraction and delight that would come with their care.

There will be more stories to tell as they grow. But just as 5-year-old Karla learned that baby calves often pass without warning, so do baby chicks. It’s been heartbreaking to witness my grandson’s grief as the one who willingly jumped into his outstretched hand didn’t survive beyond 4 days. That even our most valiant efforts, our frantically googling and racing to Tractor Supply for emergency meds, could save her.

Her name is Cosmo.
She was here and she mattered.
She’s buried by our coop where her brooder-mates will go one day when they’re old enough.

A humbling reminder that no amount of planning can predict the unpredictable and stop what is unstoppable.

There’s still sadness here, but also joy as some of the babies’ antics distract us from the work we are doing to plan and prepare for a future as family leaves our home and they transition into a home of their own.

You see? It’s a good pause, but also a huge one. A massive life-changing event as my husband and I once again, very soon, will be empty nesters with just a dog and soon-to-be teen chicks that will (hopefully) be filling a coop that is waiting their arrival.

Whew. Writing it feels cathartic, cleansing, and dare I say, vulnerable? Yes, that’s the word.

Be patient with me, Beautiful Souls.
My pressing pause doesn’t mean I don’t care.
It means I care too much.

My heart hurts when I think about these past two years, but I can’t live there. I mustn’t. Because something good, magical and healing is happening. Lives have been restored, and hope has been renewed.

So, all the watering I did, physically in gardens and metaphorically in lives, I am now reaping the fruits of that labor. A few things were here for a moment, like Cosmo, but blessed us immensely. Her sisters are growing rapidly and seem unscathed by her absence. And while the heat barreled down on us, a cucumber became something unrecognizable and inedible, but the plant that birthed it remains vital and strong, unscathed. The cucumber will continue the cycle of life by decomposing in the compost pile.

And me?

Well, somewhere between a tiny grave for a baby chick, a garden returning to life as the heat wave finally leaves us, a new home being prepared and becoming alive for loved ones on a new adventure, and our home being reset for a life after the waves that came crashing in the form of crisis, of heat, of things ending and new beginnings…

I’m coming back to life.

Grief and gratitude may be chaotic soulmates, but it’s what I have today.

But soon there’ll be more, because I’ve seen the news, I’ve heard the speeches, and I can see clearly through their words to the understories that you need to hear that will help you deconstruct from the toxicity they spew.

But that’s for another day.
Today…
A grandson and I are tending the baby chicks and healing our broken hearts.
I’ll see you soon.