An egg is gently removed from a hen house. Cradled in a palm. Placed in a carton. Stacked gingerly in a refrigerated truck. Carefully unloaded and methodically restacked in the grocery store refrigerator. It is then cautiously removed from the refrigerator by a shopper. Placed on the top shelf of the grocery cart, and then carted slowly through the store to the checkout. See it now on the wide, black belt moving with deliberation to the checkout out clerk. Now in it goes into its own bag. Handled with care. Placed in the car. Driven prudently home. Placed with care in the refrigerator. Ahh. Finally. It has arrived unharmed. The egg is safe, secure, home. What happens next? The egg is taken from the refrigerator. It is smashed against the rim of the frying pan. It’s gooey innards are splashed against the interior of the pan. Its essence momentarily mingled with hot oil until congealed. Cooked. Then consumed.
Now see the chick. Back at the henhouse, an egg left behind hatches. Out of the broken shell tumbles a baby bird. Cold. Wet. Unfeathered. Vulnerable. It comes trembling forth. Another baby chick pokes at it with a delicate beak. Its Mama sits on it, steps on it, bounces into it. It may fall from its perch in the coop. It is hungry. It is unsure. It seeks food. It seeks warmth. It instinctively seeks security, but instead, it gets LIFE. The chick grows. It runs. It plays with its chick brothers and sisters and cousins. It climbs. It pretends to fly. It falls. It gets back up. It sings. It coos. It yells loudly. It dives in the mud. It plucks at the grass. It chases a grasshopper. It chases a butterfly. It falls. It gets back up. Its feathers grow. Its body grows. It runs through the rain. It chases the dog. It changes its mind. It runs from the dog. It pretends to fly. It falls. It gets back up.
One day, the chick will become a full- fledged chicken. What happens next? Life may bring her death at the hand of the farmer, or by the mouth of a fox. She may be taken to market and sold. She may be kept as a pet, or she may be killed, cooked, eaten. Or perhaps the chick will grow up to be used for laying eggs, just as its own mother was. Who knows? Who knows what life will bring? Who knows what providence, or fate may have in store? The chick does not know. The chick does not care. So until its path is traveled to its absolute end. Until her journey is completely, and utterly over. She will pretend to fly. She will fall, but she will get back up.
Life offers no one security, so within reason, I choose adventure. A timid life is no life at all. Fly.
Musings of Roxanne LoMarc 