I haven’t much to say to my friend Dolores. And I never would have imagined that one day I would have a friend like her.
Dolores is a chicken. A small black silky chicken, all black, all feathers, no eyes. Her feathers grow over her eyes and sometimes need to be trimmed.
But most of the time you can’t see her eyes.
There is no anthropomorphising Dolores. She is alien. An alien with a feathered hat like she is off to the races.
When you step outside, she appears. And will follow you around like a puppy. Except with no eyes, and no apparent neediness. She just follows, and stands where you stand.
There is a polishing motor set up in the garden. And when we stand there dressing pieces to a satin finish with the aluminium oxide wheel, or removing scratches more aggressively with the ironically softer looking polishing wheel, there is Dolores.
Dolores, the polishing chicken.
She will come up and stand there just a bit too close to your ankles. She will poo at your feet as you polish. But she seems to want nothing other than to be there. She certainly doesn’t wish to be patted, she doesn’t wish to be in your line of sight or even distract your attention. She is happy being there.
And she makes those soft contented chicken noises which reminds me of water running over pebbles.
What more could one want?
The idea of polishing pieces without Dolores there makes me sad. How does that sadness even fit into the world? It doesn’t of course, and thank goodness.
We are supposed to find mentors in this life, and I would like at least a part of me, to be like Dolores. Softly present, and unconcerned by the idea of my own necessity.
Ah, but to dare to fade a little. In our most intimate exchanges.
To be with others and know that to be the centre of attention, or to receive all the accolades, is not to be the most important.
To become less important in order to allow those around us to focus elsewhere, to go, to return.
To be securing in that way, to let the feathers grow over our eyes so that we can only sense things, we cannot even tell if we are being looked at or not.
To gather close, and give space at the same time.
To poo when we need to, without apology. (Ok, that one I don’t aspire to.)
But to always always, even in our quietest moments, wear a glorious feather hat like we are going to a grand party, and never apologise for that.
Dolores my dear, you are an inspiration and I doubt you will ever care!
I tip my hat to you.
