Gardens of Accommodation: Heinrick Harrer, the Dalai Lama, Seven Years in Tibet, worms, toads, and Jonathan Livingston Chicken

Tonight, I'd planned on writing about an all-day event that I attended, a communal building of an outdoor oven for a member of my brother's permaculture group, an occasion akin to the barn-raising scene in the movie, Witness. 

Very moving.  But, as poet Naomi Shihab Nye explains, sometimes you want to go to church, but your writing takes you to the dog races instead.

Over the years, I've learned to follow my writing, rather than direct it.  And tonight, eating dinner out by the garden, watching thunderheads build while the wind kicked up and sent the pergola lights swaying, I felt an impulse to post instead about gardens of accommodation.

The pergola at the garden at Dry Creek at night

I'm so new to the sustainable-living lifestyle, I'm hesitant to claim authority about anything having to do with gardens, pastures or farm animals. Yet my garden, for its size, has been incredibly successful, and I purchased zero commercial fertilizers and used zero pesticides along the way.  In fact, from the garden's very inception, I've went out of my way to accommodate nature rather than control it.  Perhaps, that has brought good karma.  Anyway, I'll choose to believe that until life proves otherwise.

My favorite scene in the movie Seven Years in Tibet is when Brad Pitt's character, Heinrick  Harrer, complains to the young Dalai Lama that he can't proceed building the requested movie theater because the workers refuse to kill worms.

The Dalai Lama explains why all life is sacred to Tibetans and then says, "You cannot ask a devout people to disregard holy teaching."

Heinrick Harrer smiles in disbelief, "I'm sorry, but we can't possibly rescue all the worms if you want the theater finished in this lifetime."

"You have a clever mind," responds the Dalai Lama.  "Think of a solution and in the meantime explain to me what is an elevator."

The next scene is of monks gently sifting dirt from worms dug out of the foundation trench and then carefully covering the worms up with dirt in their new home.

I found myself in a similar position when I started filling in a garden bed by our back steps and my youngest son, Everest, protested, "but, Dad, remember that's where our toad lives."

Remembering the movie, I decided that although I needed that garden space I would not bury the our toad-friend under the stairs.  Therefore, Everest and I used river stones to build a series of stepped-back retaining walls that provided stairs to his house under our back porch.  While we were at it, we also decided to save the rabbit brush that had grown wild near by.

Because of our extra work, we've enjoyed many nights of watching our toad catch grass hoppers in the garden under the swaying lights.


The next accommodation I had to make is for our youngest chicken, Blackie, who I quickly nicknamed Jonathan Livingston Chicken for a couple of reasons:  first, because she's a loner who was persecuted by the flock as youngster; second, because for a chicken, she can really fly.  Our summer coup is a converted dog kennel which is over six-feet high.  Although, I put a roof over most of it for shade, I left openings as part of the Japanese-modernism design I desired.  It worked great, except for one problem:  one night, Blackie decided it would be nicer to roost alone up under the great spiraling Milky Way, rather than down in the cage with rest of the flock.

That would have been fine if we didn't have owls, hawks and eagles, not to mention raccoons.
Now, I could have easily strung chicken wire across the openings in the cage to keep Blackie in her place.  But, I thought of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, my favorite movie as a child, and one of my favorite books now:

What he had once hoped for the Flock, he now gained for himself alone; he learned to fly, and he was not sorry for the price he paid.

I would not keep Blackie, my Jonathan Livingston Chicken, from flying higher than any chicken has flown.   So, I spent two very long, hot days building a second story to my coup, an open-air screened room, so that she can roost up there under the grand sweep of the Milky Way, away from the flock, and still be safe at the same time.


Sky Nest added to the chicken coup for Blackie

Sky Nest (detail) addition for Blackie

And at some level, I think she knows that I went out of my way to accommodate her, because I've never gotten around to filling in the other holes in the roof, and I know she could fly out if she really wanted to.  But instead, each night she flies only into the penthouse I made her, happy enough to be high up under the grand firmament spiraling overhead.

Perhaps I'm just some wacko post-hippie, but not only do I believe that all animals from worms to whales have their own individual (not just as a species) spirit, intelligence and will, I also believe that by accommodating these independent wills the best we can, we gain grace that blesses our lives in unexpected ways--a garden that yields more than it should or a loyal chicken who follows you around, hops on your lap and stays--not because she has to, but because she wants to.