Six years ago, in the midst of the pandemic, my family (well, mainly me) made the decision to try something new. Something we had never done before. And that was to raise chickens. To some, it raised eyebrows, and to others, curiosity. But none of those opinions really mattered. There was extra time on our hands, and somewhere deep down, we were looking for something steady to hold onto. And with that, we said, why not?
I still remember how for weeks, nothing happened. Sitting in a warm incubator were the smooth, still eggs. I checked on them every day anyway, like something might suddenly change if I looked closely enough.
Then one day I heard the high pitched chirps coming from inside an egg.
There is a quote I’m reminded of from Hermann Hesse’s Demian, “The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world.” That chick did exactly that. It fought for hours, resting, then trying again, over and over until the shell finally gave. I remember just watching, knowing I couldn’t help it. I found it humbling, the strength of something so small.
But what really stays with me is everything that came after. I watched it grow, learn how to peck at the ground for worms, missing at first, then trying again, chasing after bugs, startling at the sight of dogs, singing in the mornings, even laying its first egg. Day by day, I watched it discover the world for the first time, unsure but determined. What once existed in silence inside a shell was now loud, restless, and alive.
I think that’s the part I forget sometimes. I’m reminded that I’m still learning what it means to break out of my own “egg.” To destroy one's own environment in order to survive outside of it. To break free. To trust there’s something beyond, even if I can’t see it yet.