Cuprum and Beyond. Cuprum is a baby chick who taught me about the power of love, the Divine Feminine and motherhood.

Cuprum and Beyond

The feathery black month-old chick’s body lies acutely limp in my palm. Minutes ago he was sleeping. His outstretched neck and gaping beak rest on my thumb. I feel no effort from him to rebound.

His softly scaled toes that once gripped my fingers relax into noodles.  A sense of eerie peace dominates the air.

My hands shake, “Cuprum, please don’t die! I love you! Show me what you need!” but he’s not breathing.

Droplets of my tears bead between his wings like blessings.

The faint waft of his fading heart jarred me.  Divine Motherhood, Herself streamed instructions: “Skin to skin against your heart, hum low and deep to the tone of bone, like the vibration of a mother hen, nestle him deep between your breasts and bathe in the sun. Believe, believe, believe.”

Cuprum’s downy fluff compressed against my sticky skin.  My heart suctioned the fluttering vapors of his avian heartbeats into my pericardial sac; the protector of the heart. Greedily sinking into the power of a strong beat, he found his rhythm.

Something bigger held my shoulders as I held Cuprum.  Sitting in the cedar rocking chair on my front porch, I saw visions of moms all over the world carrying their infants, skin to skin. Instinctual care combined with the confidence in being a mother, rooted in ancient Earth, fiercely protective.

Cuprum’s bright eyes met mine.  Soft chirps snuck out under his breath. His air sacs filled with the warm summer air as his toes grabbed my fingers.

I wanted to synch with the Divine Feminine and entrain to that beat. The medicine of the moment pulsed a flowing sense of peace between us.

Who saved whom?

Cuprum’s event was just the beginning; over half of my month-old flock was sick with a severe respiratory condition.  Despite the best food and environment, I felt like a failing Chicken Momma. My brood was in danger of death.

While asking for guidance as to the root cause of their weakness, I heard, “We are orphans.”  All commercially raised chicks were orphans. The thought slapped my cheeks and popped my head forward. How could I not consider this until now? With a sense of cold shock, I dove into the realities chicks face as soon as their egg is laid.

Commercially raised chicks had one relative in common,”Mother Hen.”  “She” was a metal and glass box with heating elements, lights, timers and egg turners.  Her mechanical hum meant she couldn’t keep them company with her multi-tuned coos.  Nor could she fluff up and settle deeper into her nest should her eggs became chilled.  Forget plucking feathers out of her own flesh to provide skin to egg contact for perfect humidity control.  No encouraging noises were heard when it was time for “unzipping;” the process from which chicks are born.  Never mind raising them on the earth and teaching them to forage and watch for hawks.

Their hatching cycle was timed with computers and midwifed by machines. Breeding flocks are not always in-house.  Eggs were sometimes shipped for hatching.  By the end of about three weeks, they’d visited incubating rooms and hatcher trays in order to reach the big day. Sorting and packing chicks meant sending them in the mail with hydration gel and special nesting material.  Their internal yolk sac provided nourishment for three days post-hatch. It was an admirably efficient system. It made me want local birds raised outside by their mothers more than ever.

Few breeders wanted to deal with brooding hens who stopped laying eggs while they sat on their nest bickering their protective chant. I settled on a small local breeder with incubated eggs but with parents on site.

They were fluffy babies sitting under red heat lamps with their tender feet atop metal hardware cloth.  Were they at their full expression of health?  Looking back, I’m not sure they could be anything but fragile.

What if we were raised like these chicks? The trans-species lack of collective motherhood left a burning pit in my belly, clamoring for coolness to quiet the fire.  I imagined the mayhem that would become of our world without the influence of good mothers.

Cuprum and most of his flock struggled mightily.  My heart-felt Mother Energy was the medicine they needed. Reading their posture, their energy, their interactions with each other told me everything.  How their bodies felt in my hands told me if they were gaining strength or not.  Their eyes coupled with their ability to synch with mine showed they could communicate.  We were connected on a non-physical level.  That kind of bond woke me up from a slumber at two in the morning to check on the sleeping flock.  It guided me to pick the right kinds of grasses and herbs that would be most nourishing.  Their chirps and affection were my reassurance that I was doing a good job.

Cupum’s restoration led me to photograph an image of us, skin to skin, as if a maternity picture.  I hesitated to take the photo.

Is Motherhood too sacred to be exposed? Half-naked with a sleeping chicken on my chest, I felt an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability mixed with raw power.

Could I trust that everything I needed to help Cuprum was inside?

The call to offer drumming to the chicks pulled me out to the brooding pen in my pajamas one evening when they were ill.  Every other animal had loved it, why not chickens? Sitting among the chicks with my homemade elk-hide drum was pure bliss. The first beats softly boomed through the air as they nestled into the bedding. Their eyes hid behind slumbering lids. The drum, the oldest symbol of the feminine helped their immune systems to find the bannister of homeostasis.  Visions of white blood cell macrophages vacuuming up infection flew through my mind. Sinking into the rhythm of the tones, I felt my own roots grow deeper into the ultimate mother named Earth.

The next morning, Cuprum bolted from the feeder when he heard my voice, “Cuprum!  Good morning!”

He whipped past Big Red Edna and Joyful Josie, two ruby red hens three times his size. The little black chick with a pink rooster comb careened around a waterer with his wings outstretched for balance. Bedding flew through the air as he clumsily launched himself on to my chest and crawled up my shoulder.  Like a baby parrot he began preening his plumage and picking through my hair.  Brown and white striped Wiley and white-splashed Shrimpie flew onto my fingers in their elementary style of clumsy up-down fledgling flight. Creamy and Lovey with their muted tabby stripes landed on my free  shoulder. The beaks of several chicks styled my hair into a morning fashion statement. Chirps of glee piqued my ears with excitement. Cotton Twin Silkies nestled at my feet like white furry slippers and made a sound like a purr, but softer.

Cuprum and his flock mates proved the power of a mother.  What counted was the intention and tuning into the greater force of Mother Earth.  She is the ultimate guide for any mother.  Motherly forces are in all of us.  It’s our choice to call it in; the love of motherhood, regardless of species.

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