The Goddess (Or What Happened When I Joined Team Chicken)

"Who's coming to Team Chicken with me tomorrow morning?" I asked my family while out at the fabulous Cafe Sunflower for dinner.

Silence.

"C'mon, Team Chicken! How are you going to wear the t-shirt if you don't participate?" I asked.

"There is no t-shirt, Mom," my older daughter said.

"Not yet," I answered.

"How about you go this first week and . . . check it out . . and then we'll join you next time?" my younger daughter, future diplomat, suggested.

And so, there I was, alone as the sun rose on I-285, making my way more than 30 minutes away to the Oakhurst Community Garden, to join Team Chicken, the group of volunteers that take turns tending to the garden's six chickens each day.

I had become a bit obsessed with Team Chicken back in November, when I took the Chicks in the City class and the leaders of the class suggested joining Team Chicken if you were interested in learning how to care for chickens before getting them yourself. And, of course, long-time readers of FoodShed Planet know I live in a neighborhood that forbids chicken-keeping ("no live poultry" is how it's technically put in the covenants).

"Since you can't even have chickens, why, then are you doing this?" my husband asked. I think I heard "thank God for covenants" under his breath.

Yes, "Because this, I can do" works here as an answer. But, in truth? I think somehow chickens are simply part of my journey. And dare I say, I think they may just be an important part. And as with all journeys, the road of which often bends out of view far too soon to be able to predict where you are heading, I can't figure for the life of me why or how chickens will matter. I've simply learned to trust the journey. And I just keep showing up.

So, I showed up for Team Chicken, looking forward to seeing the chickens' little beady-eyed faces when they are first let out, and particularly excited that it was a "clean the coop" day.

I rounded the corner of Oakview Avenue, parked and entered the sleepy, winter garden, an acre and a half of diversity. Neighbor garden plots over here. The earthen playhouse. The labyrinth. The woodland path. The teaching garden. The compost pile. The bees. And yes, the beautiful wooden chicken coop and run.

And the six chickens. Out already. And the coop. Cleaned already. Yet no one to be found.

I stood there, perplexed. Why was I here? What twist had the road of my journey taken?

And then, I saw her. A strong, purposeful woman with armfuls of brush, way back in the wild spaces.

I called to her, asking if she were the Team Chicken member I was supposed to meet.

"No, I'm Sally." she answered.

Sally. Ah, yes, I had heard about Sally. Sally was the founder of this garden more than ten years ago. The story goes that some children had vandalized her neighbor's garden, and Sally and her neighbor responded by inviting the children to become caretakers of the garden, guiding the group as they restored it. They even created a second garden on the median strip beside the neighbor's house. This eventually led to the formation of the Oakhurst Community Garden. The children ended up receiving certificates of appreciation from the mayor of the city, and I suspect this whole experience has changed the trajectory of their lives.

As for me, I suspect meeting Sally has changed the trajectory of mine. Just as with Bruce Mack last week, I sense the aura surrounding Sally. An artist, educator, and theologian, Sally bursts with the kind of passion you just don't see every day. Or month. Or year.

Sally was busy putting the thorn-filled armfuls of brush on The Goddess, she told me. It is a hut-like structure that was built last year for Earth Day. It is a magic place, she told me, for the children. A place in the wild where they could go. A place they need, and of which there are less and less in today's world.

Since I am a strong advocate of unstructured, outdoor exploration in nature and a fan of the book, Last Child in the Woods, I knew I had met a kindred spirit in Sally (whose last name, as fate would have it, is Wylde).

Sally had somewhere she needed to be, so our conversation was short, but we agreed to meet again. Soon. Jotting down her contact info, I said, "You call it the Goddess Hut?"

And she answered, "No. Just The Goddess."

Sally left, and I stood there, in the shadow of The Goddess, and smiled.

All because of Team Chicken.

The Goddess (Or What Happened When I Joined Team Chicken)