November 12, 2014 – Mom mentioned to us that she needs to clean out the garage sometime this week so she can fit the car inside if and when we get a snowstorm. We wanted to help since the garage is also our clubhouse, so a small team of us went in to pack away our summer toys. Waffles was my work buddy for the afternoon.
“Hap,” she said in a serious tone. “Do you have a passion?”
“For what?” I replied.
“I don’t know… that’s what I’m asking,” she answered.
“You’re making my head hurt,” I laughed. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“I want to know if you feel passionate about something in your life.”
“Sure I do,” I offered freely. “I am passionate about making sure my family has everything they need to live a good life. I’m passionate about science and music, finding a gem at the bottom of a recycling bin and telling fortunes from a strong cup of chamomile tea. I’m passionate about stamp collecting and bug collecting and catching snowflakes on my tongue. I suppose you could say that I’m passionate about beer and moonshine, since we’re in the business, though as you know, I’m not much of a drinker myself. Then again, a tasty piña colada right about now would be hard to turn away.”
I could have gone on, but I could tell by the incredulous look upon Waffles’ face, that the conversation was meant to discuss her own sense of waywardness.
“You don’t know your true passion?” I asked the young hen.
“I thought it was standup comedy, which I truly enjoy, but I feel of late that I need something more in my life. Something to pull me forward and get excited about every day. I am very willing to find my passion… but I don’t know how. Wilma told me to head over to the produce department of the grocery store and find a fruit by the same name. She said if I sat on it for three days, I’d have my answer.”
“You’ll have worms, is what you’ll have. Don’t listen to her. Listen, kid… the answer is already there. You just need to be quiet long enough to hear it.”
“Maybe I should go sit on top of Yoga Rock for a few minutes.”
“That’s a terrific idea,” I praised. “And take this dustpan with you. It needs to be emptied.”
I started thinking of ways to help navigate my youthful friend, when Rick the mailman stopped by with a letter for me. It contained an invitation from the producer’s of the Family Feud. They were so impressed with our feathered family during the taping earlier this year, that they want to build a reality television show around us. Imagine!
I was about to find Waffles and tell her that a retreat of some sort might be in order for her, but now I think I’ll wait. We’ll get better ratings if she works through her process on national TV. I’ll have to run the idea of our own show before our development board, of course. Basically, whoever is in the break room at the Happy Chicken Brewing Company tomorrow when I head in. I don’t know how the other ladies will feel about such an interesting financial opportunity. After all, money is hardly the root of happiness, and some of us are more shy than others. I’m not even sure how I feel about having a camera follow my every move. Do I want millions of viewers listening to every thought that flows freely from my beak?
I filled my satchel with a couple of raspberry scones and joined Waffles on Yoga Rock. Suddenly, I know half as much as I did before I started this day.