On Being Chicken, on Being Human

 Thoughts about instinct and intensity

Years ago when we owned chickens, I'd sit in the yard and watch them scratching around in the mulch. If you've ever seen a chicken foraging in a backyard, you'll know that they bring a laser-focused intensity to what they're doing. They peck, flicking the mulch bits everywhere, hone in on where there might be bugs, then stand over the area, scratch vigorously with their feet while looking around for predators, then back up and stare at the scratched area, pecking and fussing at the ground until they find a tiny beetle or a stray worm. They bring this same intensity to looking for tiny pebbles to swallow (to fill up their "crop," an organ that eliminates the need for teeth): I'd watch them picking up and testing the size of various bits of gravel, trying to find the perfect one to add to their internal food-grinding organ. 

Something that always struck me when I watched them was how instinctive all their behavior was. Unlike other birds I've known, such as the cockatiels my mom has owned, they didn't seem to make decisions or think much at all: they just responded to their environments in the way they are fundamentally created to, with an intensity of concentration that any Zen master would envy.

I often thought about how humans tire ourselves out with overthinking things, how we run around trying to make sure our lives count for something, how we brew in existential dread, how we agonize over choices or experience a simmering anxiety about whether we should be doing this or that. You can argue that this worry is part of what makes us human, and yet I think that we could do to learn from chickens. 

What is instinctive about being human? Coming together in community. Creating art and building things. Walking in the sunshine. Staring into a crackling campfire and swimming in water. Making and sharing food. How often do we engage in these core behaviors, these things that we are hard-wired to do if we could only drop the anxiety long enough to simply enjoy them?

This year I hope to lean into my instinctive behavior. To create, to commune, to connect. This year I hope to learn from the chickens.

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