Eggs as Proof

Sasquatch, Ninja, and Ostrich examining the camera

Today the hens are still abed, wondering where I am. The kitchen lies in destruction, pie crust scattered on the floor. Everyone is sleeping. Everyone but me. In the hen coops, I will find the eggs the girls are just starting to lay. They will be small and pale, a rosy brown, some speckled, in a carton next to large, dark and perfect from my year-old hen. In my hands they feel like purpose. A wholeness that hums and breathes.

I spent the wee hours in bed with Lois Lowry, preparing to help my son to understand the use of symbolism so the world will open up to him. Blue is not just blue. Nothing is ever just what it is. Even the pie crust underfoot is a civilization obliterated by my heel. I am an alien in my own skin, invading the world of wakers who are stirring all about. I have to feed the dog, the innocent amidst the sinning fray.

I am struck by all this simple beauty. Skies that are blue in a way only southwest skies are blue. Hens that cuddle and cluck and leave breakfast for me in their house. A dog whose mammalian devotion has been the lifeline of  agitated children facing bathroom beasts, who can fight malevolent gods with the power of his fawning glance. Words that sharpen into meaning, making us more than simply human, words that make us mages of the mind.

Eggs that are smooth and warm and weighty. Wholeness and potentiality in my hand. Life means well. Eggs are proof of that.