The routine of tending chickens reminds me of how a good self-care practice ought to be.
No wait, hear me out.
In the morning almost first thing after dawn, I put on my clompiest slip-on boots, and my coat, and I go out to free them from the coop. I lower the drawbridge-style door and see who pops their feathered heads out first. I say good morning to them and ask how they are. They don’t answer of course except with their quiet chicken sounds, so instead I use my senses to check in with each of them as they emerge and see how they’re doing and what they might need. On especially cold mornings I pour warm amino acid broth into a rubber bowl that they always knock over, because it’s good for the whole flock. This is the warmup of our practice.
Then I move on to the meat of the practice, pardon the pun. Providing what might be beneficial for balance. On a cold evening, I give cracked corn, so their digestive systems can work as a little furnace and provide them extra heat throughout the night. At midday in the heat of the summer, I refresh their water with cool water and give them frozen peas. Most of the flock can be maintained in similar ways by offering them things and allowing them to choose what they want to partake in, and every once in a while, we all take turns being Pepper.
Pepper, right now, is a mess. She’s molting, I think, and she has always been the meanest, but it seems that recently the other hens have come into their own and started pecking back. She’s missing some feathers - not a lot, but not so little that you don’t notice. She has the air of a harassed mother of multiple toddlers, a customer service worker, or someone who went from a chaotic management position to being suddenly self-employed with only herself to boss around. I can certainly relate to the latter, although I have long-since adjusted and decided just to work well and kindly with myself. just like I would anyone else. Pepper is a metaphor for the aching hip, the “bad” knee, the sore neck that after spending too much time reading the news on a smartphone, is sending small sharp pains to the right eye. Pepper needs some extra help, so later I will give her some scrambled eggs to give her the protein she needs. (To us, this seems cannibalistic, and to her, it seems like warmth and strength.)
The rest and movement we provide to our bodies might seem like very little, or even strange to an external eye. We might think of this because the movement practices we see have been curated for our eyes. Dance performances, sporting events, acrobatic routines, and the strange crossover between beneficial movement and advertising movement in all kinds of media, including recorded classes. But most of the time, what you really need to give yourself might look like nothing at all from the outside. A cushion on your wooden chair to be gentle to your hamstrings, to soak your feet in warm water, to gently unwind any tension you’ve picked up through your day, week, month, and life.
If we find ourselves tending more lovingly, carefully, and compassionately to creatures and tasks outside of ourselves, how much can we bring those qualities into our practice? How much can we be just as kind to ourselves, as we are to others - this is the modern American version of the Golden Rule. Of course, there are exceptions, but I’m guessing that in general, many of us are more polite and considerate of others, at times, than we are to ourselves. (If it makes you mad or brings a tear to your eye to read that. . . you are in the right place!) Be as kind to yourself as you would be to others.
On days when we are Pepper - and we all are sometimes - how much can we slow down, check in, and give ourselves what we need?
