The egg

What’s in the laying of an egg?

Especially an egg from a wild duck. Right in the middle of the path by the Split Rock. No nest; just there on the ground all by itself.

I saw the pair of ducks fly off as I was approaching the Peace Pond for my morning walk at dawn. The egg, when I came upon it within three minutes, was cold indicating that it had lain on the ground for some time without either of the ducks sitting on it. Usually, ducks lay between 6 and ten eggs in some sort of nest; whether a clump of grass or in the hollow of a low lying tree.

So, what to make of it? Being where it was right on the path next to the Split Rock, it is tempting to augur some meaning out of it. (In Roman times, an augur being a religious figure who interpreted omens derived from the flight, singing, and feeding of birds.)

One “interpretation” is that just giving birth to an idea isn’t always enough. There is a nurturing phase where the vulnerable egg (or the newly hatched idea) has to be seriously cared for or, otherwise, will not grow to maturity.

I think of the trees I have been planting and wonder if I am doing enough for them. I put the seedling into the prepared, moist hole. Next, I put down a protective mulch matt around the base of the seedling to prohibit competing grass from sucking up vital water, and then, using four bamboo stakes, I put a tall plastic, tube like bag around the seedling to prevent rabbits and wallabies from nibbling on its tender shoots as well as protecting it from the howling, drying winds and salt laden air. After this, over the next few years I regularly inspect the bags and fix up those that need fixing.

Could I do more?

I think of the small residency program I am planning for Windgrove. Have I given enough attention to detail? To its financing or the placement of buildings? I certainly wouldn’t want to lay a goose egg with this vision.

Then again, maybe this particular pair of ducks were just plain “goofy” and hadn’t planned on having any eggs at all. It might have just popped out unexpectedly.

Perhaps, as Mary Oliver writes, the egg was an invitation to look:

“When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there…”

Perhaps, it could simply be a gift. To me.

Whether intentional or not, I thank the ducks for presenting me with this pale, creamy brown egg that now rests on a shelf in the kitchen pantry. Tomorrow for breakfast, on top of three pancakes will sit bacon and one fried egg. Along with the maple syrup running down the sides, will be dark yellow duck yoke.