Death in the garden

If I am lucky, I will bury all of my chickens. Digging a hole is a lot of work so I may as well plant a tree or bush and turn them into flowers. Today I'm planting mexican oregano in honor of Amapola, the Plymouth Rock who seemed to enjoy standing up to the bullying of our little dog, Jasper, always pecking him through the fence between them.

There is no life without death. I garden, at least in part, to be close to the death and suffering that sustains my existence. And if I can produce my own food, I can try to decrease the amount of death and suffering that goes into my food. I don't use poisons or killing traps. I share my crops with the wild critters who need to eat to survive. I tend to use a fork instead of a shovel to dig in the earth, because more worms are cut by my shovel than by my fork. I keep chickens that needed rehoming, and when they stop laying I can appreciate their soil-building contributions, weed- and pest-control, their soft noises, beautiful feathers, and their antics.

...and neither do chickens.

calligraphy by Thich Nhat Hanh