Once upon a time, on a chicken ranch far away, an ancient chicken ranch owner fell asleep in the deep dark forest of timelessness. As he drifted deeper into what felt like an ordinary sleep–a dream began to unfold. Not realizing that these experiences are but the reflections of one’s unconscious inner landscape, Chicktheus was at the threshold of a new experience.
Now Chicktheus, or C T as he was called, had always held within himself a secret lust for power. Day and night he dreamed of being master of all. In pursuit of that goal, one day C T bought his very own chicken ranch not far from the dark forest of Nyseeuh. Now the ruler of that forest was none other than the dark lord of the empire, Constantpain; named this because of the pain and suffering he constantly inflicted upon those under his rule.
But C T was not afraid. In fact he loved those dark energies that matched his own inner self. As he began to plan his own ranch, his plans couldn’t be anything less than the full range of his own demands for power. His plotting for control of the smaller ranches was soon to be understood by all. His dark plans required much more territory, many more beings under his thumb, and a desire to rule over that vast number of chickens on all the neighboring ranches and beyond. But how? He knew he needed help.
Then one day, he had a rather bizarre idea. He knew he had to act, though it was definitely risky. And, while he knew if he made the wrong mistake, his ranch, his dreams, and even his own self could come to an end. But by now, his dark desires for control would not be quenched. So, into the dark forest he went. To find Constant pain was his goal. Surely he well help me, he queried.
On C T’s way into the forest he couldn’t help but notice, since he’d never been there before, skeletons lying about on the trail– perhaps skeletons of those who’d tried this before? With every voice inside of him screaming to turn around, C T stopped for a moment, his knees shaking with the same fear he had put on others so often. But just what could the meaning of life be if it didn’t mean to control others and make sure they had rules to live by? Rules? Yes, absolute demands, actually. So absolute that no chicken dare disobey without facing the flames of the roasting oven.
And, with that determination, he took one more step, then another and even more until he was beyond the point of turning back. Meeting with Constantpain was his goal. To build an alliance with the Lord of Nyseeuh, the energies of the dark forest could be spread to every chicken on every ranch in every province. His lust for power and control could finally be satisfied. But he had to convince Constantpain that without him the empire was in danger of falling apart. As the scheme in his head unfolded, C T became bolder and bolder.
Approaching the gate decorated with lions heads, dragons, and serpents galore, C T took one more deep breath and pulled the rope. After a few moments of silence he pulled the rope again–only harder. Again, nothing. Constantpain’s castle was huge. Maybe he didn’t hear me, he mused.
C T paused to reflect on just what he would say first to Constantpain. How dare he try to convince this ruler of the dark forest that he needed a chicken rancher at all? With a bit more hesitancy, C T pulled the rope one more time. Suddenly, the whole place began to shake as a very loud voice from within the castle was heard–“Who dares to pull my rope? Who? You are in great danger to be here uninvited. Who are you?
“I’m C T the owner of a chicken ranch near the edge of your forest. I have some news for you–a warning that is.” “And just who would dare to warn the King of Nyseeuh?” shouted Constantpain. “Your forest is in danger sir! The chickens…” “The chickens?” roared Constantpain. “I fear no chicken!” “But sir, what you don’t realize is that those chickens who were tortured by you in the past are growing in numbers. Now, they are constantly pooping in your forest, going deeper and deeper to poop because they want to overthrow your empire. Those chickens must be brought under control. Separately, we will lose the battle, but together we can win!” “I’ve never needed anyone before! But chicken poop? That I cannot tolerate. Open the door, come in–we must talk.”
And with that meeting in the heart of Nyseeuh, a plan was adopted. As Constantpain realized that accepting the chickens and making the roosters part of his empire, his kingdom could be secure. A plan that would not only secure the dark forest of Constantpain, but would also make C T the most powerful ranch owner of all. C T acted quickly on his new authority, and called together all the head chicken ranch owners from all the known chickendoms–limited only by the small vision of his ego, that is. There had always been too much chaos in the chickendom, he mused. Control and order must be established. And so C T called together the 1st Council of Nyseeuh. There in the dark forest of Constantpain, the ranch owners gathered amidst trembling and fear of the unknown.
But soon all fears were to be dissolved in the energies of control as they were each assigned a powerful role in extending the wishes of Constantpain. C T was now the head of all the ranchers of the empire, and all the chickens too.
All C T had to do was put together the rules that would secure his kingdom in cooperation with Constantpain. Their rule book, put together in the next few weeks was to be the authority over all the chickendom. C T knew that his new role was very powerful. He now had the backing of Constantpain, fear as his chief weapon over the chickens, and a rule book that must be believed and obeyed or else. The fear of the flames of the chicken roaster would solve the problems of disobedience. The chickens were his subjects now. But a plan to control them all was needed. Putting the roosters at the head of the chicken-authority-chain was paramount. After all the males species is always superior to the female.
But how to put that rule book into form was the question. What were the contents to be. We must create an absolute chicken god that will be obeyed or else. Breaking rules must have some very serious consequences. C T searched the records of all the ancient chicken stories and the gods that were most powerful. He brought together hundreds of such stories, but as he sat down to review them he quickly realized that there was far too much disagreement between them. He had to act. “I know what’s best!” he declared aloud. “Rules from the past are the best rules of all,” he mused. “If they aren’t clear enough, I’ll just change them to suit our plans,” was his reasoning.
So in his quest to assemble the only authoritative chicken manual, C T threw out the stories he didn’t like–those that were different than what he loved most, and burned the rest. He narrowed down the pile of hundreds to just a couple dozen and put them together in a pile. After translating and then reinterpreting parts of those, he was satisfied with his version of “the only truth” for all chickens. He compiled them in a book stamped with gold letters and fancy paper, but they were in a different language than the chickens understood. Only the other chicken ranch owners could read them and tell the chickens what they said. The total of all the chickens in the “empire”–if they were to know the rules demanded of them, would have to depend on the “masters” reading it to them and just trusting that they were hearing the truth. Deception is always powerful, thought C T, but what he pushed away from his awareness was the law of “karma.” It would visit him again one day.
And, with that, the chicken empire was hopefully secured as the rules were made known and enforced. But the chickens are known for their rebellious ways like pooping in the dark forest of Constantpain, pondered C T. How he would be able to predict a potential uprising, he just wasn’t sure. Now, C T’s dilemma was becoming increasingly very clear. He needed chicken poop to get the attention and cooperation from Constantpain. Yet, at the same time, he feared too much poop. The rebellion of the chickens was always the essence of their poop, but controlling all that was the major issue in subduing the chickens under his control and at the same time using the poop to “fertilize” his own garden of control over all the chickens and the chicken ranchers in the empire.
In the deceptions and underhanded scheming of C T and the other ranchers, they came up with a plan that would hopefully achieve their goal of complete control. But what that required was the dilemma they faced. When looking back to how they chicken manual was chosen, edited, and assembled, they saw the answer–more chicken rules were required. All the ranchers needed to do was to look inside themselves for the answers. They knew that in their own rebellion–pooping–was the answer. So with that the rules came forth. Rule #1–Do not poop. Rule #2–Ask the chicken god for forgiveness for pooping if you just can’t stop. Rule #3–You are no longer guilty if you ask for forgiveness. Rule #4–Poop again if you need to but make sure you do it when and where we need you to poop. Then we’ll all ask for forgiveness. Rule #5–Repeat as needed.
So with cheap forgiveness now in their rule book, all was well. No one had to truly admit to their own dark side–just blame others, confess your weaknesses and keep on pooping–with permission of course. Chickens must never think for themselves for that would destroy the unity of all the chicken coops on all the chicken ranches of the empire. In the midst of group-think all chickens are “safe.” At least that’s what C T and the ranchers wanted the chickens to believe. “And don’t forget that The Chicken God is out there watching every poop you make. He will make sure you are punished in the flames of the chicken roaster if you disobey the rules.” C T was now the Poop-master overall.
And so, the process of control and the structures thereof continued. The male and female chickens had to know their places. The roosters (cocks) and the hens had their roles. Eggs had to be fertilized and baby chicks had to be born. To make sure of that, the hens were ordered to submit to the cocks and allow the eggs inside of them to be fertilized before the egg shell hardened. Then they were to lay those eggs in a nest and sit on them for three weeks for the chicks to hatch. But, of course, the cocks took full credit for the whole process.
Male domination was the key. After all, the chicken ranchers were male and they knew best how to raise chickens. The cocks could crow loudly but the hens could only cackle. In the days ahead, the hens had to submit every time a cock wanted to squirt the eggs to be laid. The rancher who owned the whole flock had a special connection with the cocks. Both being male, they understood each other very well. Control was the order of the day. So with all that and many more rules, the Chicken Creed was established. The dark forest energies of Constantpain and C T himself were dominant now as the chickens surrendered with pride to the Nyseeuh Creed, as it was called.
Chicken poop was now both legal and the key energy of the empire. The hens and the cocks both felt the domination but since it also felt like “safety” all was well where they didn’t have to think for themselves. To keep the rules was much easier, though at times the chickens felt like doormats for the feet of the ranchers. They handled that by pooping on each other when needed and then by just confessing their poop sins. All was well–or so it felt.
Then one day it happened. The chickens in the coop of a distant rancher began to rebel. There at that ranch, the cocks who felt the power over others, not realizing it was their own shadow cock showing up, began to rebel. Violence always follows repression sooner or later. They had prostituted themselves to the ranch owner long enough. And though that submission had gained them power over the hen house, they wanted more. The revolt had begun. The cocks came up with a plan. Knowing the weakness of the rancher’s eyesight, on the appointed day, they joined forces and attacked. As the rancher fell into the poop, his eyes were plucked out. The cocks wouldn’t stop until he was dead. Now, they were in control of the whole ranch. After years of prostituting themselves to that rancher, it was now their turn. Their dream to go after that other rancher nearby and to extend their chickendom was now all that mattered.
Upon hearing this, C T had to act. After consulting with Constantpain, a plan was put into action. The “Chickquisition” was ordered. Every rancher was called in to give an account of his control or lack thereof. If he was found lacking, he was severely punished–as an example for all other ranchers. But C T had to deal with the cocks and hens who rebelled and were now a looming threat to the empire. Sending out some grand inquisitors to investigate, the chickens in rebellion were found guilty, rounded up by the others ranchers who dared not disobey, and were brought to C T. Now the fires of the chicken roaster were very hot. It was time to make the rebels pay and make all the others even more afraid than ever. The doors of the roaster were opened and all the rebel chickens were thrown into the fire and burned into a pile of chicken ashes. The rebellion was stopped–for now that is. (But C T’s dream continued)
The moral in those events was that chicken poop always gives way to more chicken poop. But that lesson was not going to be learned right now or ever in the distant future–until! Until, that is, the chickens learned from the ranchers that all they had to do with their poop was to blame others for it. When the news of the Chickquisition had spread to all the ranches, a chilling fear came over all the chickens on all the ranches. The thought of the chicken roaster and being roasted alive was enough to suppress further rebellion, at least for the immediate future. “Roosters obey your rancher! Hens obey the cocks!” These were the orders handed down every day from the rancher. “The eggs must be fertilized,” was the top priority for all.
And with all that, “cock-a-doodle-do” was the constant cry from the cocks that ruled the roost. To be certain that no egg was missed, the cocks jumped on the hens all day long. It made no difference which hen, how many hens, or how many times a hen was forced into submission, the cocks were in charge and were crowing about that all day, and every day. The “cock-a-doodle-do” was the constant message of the cocks to be sure every hen knew their place. The rancher must be satisfied with the eggs he gets–or else the roaster was the grim reminder to be certain the chickens lived in fear and submission.
One day when the rancher was examining his eggs, he noticed some tiny cracks in the shells. “Imperfect eggs!” he exploded. “I cannot tolerate this. What has caused this awful situation?” And, with that he began to explore. At first, he blamed the hens for squeezing the eggs too tightly as they were laid. But he couldn’t prove that, so it became just another way to blame the hens for everyone’s problem. The Cracked Egg Syndrome continued. Each baby chick that was hatched from a flawed egg was supposed to be inferior because of those cracks. But by now all the eggs had the “crack” problem. “That’s not my egg,” declared every hen in the house. And with that the chicken projections were the doorway to chaos in the hen house. “You are guilty, not me!” was the cry of guilt being pushed away.
Every rancher was experiencing the same problem. Their assumptions were that every flawed chick, hatched from flawed eggs, was less than those hatched from good eggs. Perfection was required. After all, no cock could possibly be blamed for this problem. They only fertilized the eggs, the hens had to be blamed.
As the ranchers reviewed the history of crackedness, they traced it back to the cock that had led the revolt that killed the rancher. There must have been some inherent “evil” in that cock. But since no one could accept responsibility for anything that would blame themselves, the label “cracked” had to be blamed on another source. And so, that “evil-cock” was created and blamed for every cracked egg, every arrogant cock, and every rebellious hen. They had to deal with “Original-Crackedness” somehow!
“But, I was born cracked,” declared one chick. “What can I do?” And with that, all chicks accepted their “original crackedness” as the fault of that rebellious cock in the past–Satanacock! He was now labeled as the real cause of being less than perfect. After all, it was a cock from a different flock that caused all their pain, they surmised. Being cracked was now the new norm. “Crack-a-doodle-do” became the revised message of the cock preachers in the hen house. More chicken poop was the obvious result.
But one day, as the rancher was gathering the eggs, he found an egg with no cracks. Being so overwhelmed at this “miracle” he investigated further. That egg had been laid by a virgin hen that had never been jumped on by a cock; yet that is. Why were there no cracks he wondered. Sensing something very unusual was happening here he allowed that hen to keep the egg and see what might happen. In a couple of weeks, to the absolute shock and disbelief of the rancher, that unfertilized egg hatched! “It’s a miracle,” he shouted as he went to tell the other ranchers. Could this be the end of crackedness? But how?
Then, as that young rooster grew, no one could explain why he was so unique. He acted differently, talked differently, and possessed a chicken wisdom so profound that he spoke to the cause of the crackedness syndrome. He explained to all the chickens that the cracks were normal and that there was nothing to fear. All they had to do was to see their own shadow in the cracks and choose to overcome them by the way they lived. To transform crackedness was his message. Some chickens understood and grew beyond it all. But others could not see it and continued to blame others.
By the time this happening and the words of the rooster with no cracks got to the ears of C T, there was trouble brewing as the chickens were refusing to believe the message of control coming from C T and Constantpain. In the message of that strange rooster was the liberation of the chickens from the bondage of the lies they’d been told. Now that could not be tolerated. With their control over all the chickens in all the ranches being shaken, they had to act. They blamed that uncracked rooster for the rebellion beginning to take place and took him from the hen house and killed him in public. Surely this would stop the rebellion. But to be certain of that, C T and the ranchers put forth another mandate. “That rooster died so you can live,” the chickens were told. “You must continue to believe what we tell you, but you can blame your crackedness on that rooster who died and by that you will be saved from the roaster. But, you must still understand that you are cracked and will never be free of that.” So the “ScapeRooster” was created to control the chickens once again. The chicken poop was spreading.
By the time that all the chickens learned to throw all their guilt onto that ScapeRooster, all was well as the chickens grew to be puffed up with pride and a kind of worship of their own selves. How fun, they thought, to be guilty and yet to not have to worry about it. We just need to keep committed to the hen house and the cocks in charge. In all the successive chaos of guilt without responsibility, the hen house was destined to disintegrate into self-cockiness. To live now in the energies of irresponsibility and freedom from any guilt, life was just a chicken charade of “I’m OK, but YOU are bad!”As those who loved the idea of the “scaperooster” that took all their cracks away, their inner shadows were now coming forth as never before. But now they didn’t have to take responsibility for any of their actions since all those were now the fault of the other chickens on the other ranches. And, life on those other ranches was becoming quite dangerous, as the evils of blind cockiness were spreading.
Rumors of just how bad was the behavior on the others ranches was growing day by day. The more the cocks saw their own behavior in the actions of others, the more self-cocky they became and very angry at the depraved hens, especially. “We must act!” resonated through the hen house. “Those bad chickens on that evil ranch across the pond must be punished. The chicken roaster is their destiny.” (now at this moment, C T was stirring in his sleep, still unaware of his dream)
As the cocks began recruiting volunteers to attack that evil ranch, their self-cockiness grew immensely. “Those evil chickens must die!” became their war cry. But by now the cocksuredness of the leaders was their “idol” of purpose. In their worship of supremacy over others, nothing was off limits in dealing with that evil. They of course were totally unaware that what they saw as evil in others was only their own reflection in a mirror that was pushed aside and disowned.
Now when Constantpain heard of all that was happening in his empire of cocks, he was greatly pleased. He knew that there was nothing quite as effective as infighting to keep the cocks and hens distracted from the “prison of control” he had built with C T’s help. The empire was never going to be shaken by infighting–only strengthened. Even now as he found chicken poop on his very doorstep, he still felt he was in control. At least that was the plan of Constantpain from the beginning.
By now the cocks, sent by a different rancher, were assembling. Their army was ready to attack that evil ranch across the pond. They dubbed themselves “The Conquisticocks” sent forth to conquer and punish. All in the name of the “Scapecock” of course. As they sailed across the pond their cockiness only increased. Then, landing on the other side, swords of quills were drawn and the slaughter began. Burning the evil chickens in their hen houses was the best they could do to imitate the chicken roaster and the flames thereof. Death was the only answer for evil, there in their twisted logic of self-projections. But the smell of roasted chicken was their reward as they sailed back home.
With peace dominating the empire once again–none of the cocks realized that peace never dominates. Peace never controls. Peace, if it is real, serves as an inner strength to do what is right–not responding to the fears of being under control.
Now, there were other cocky roosters around the empire who were troubled by all they’d seen happening as the empire was totally consumed with domination, rules, penalties, restrictions, a forced tax on eggs, and the demand that all feathers must be the same color–or else! As one self-inflated cock finally decided to act against all that was wrong in the empire, he knew that some huge adjustments must be made. Dubbing himself “Reformacock,” he made a list of 95 issues he had determined must change. He nailed them to the door of Constantpain’s castle. But, with his anger inflamed, the emperor Constantpain, resisted any changes whatsoever. Trouble was breeding in the hen houses everywhere.
To stay in the empire where “safety” was ensured or to join the forces of correction was now the dilemma of all hens and cocks. More disagreement and infighting ensued. All the chicken-hearted decided to stay in the control of the empire and refused any challenges to think or question the head cocks of the empire. But others decided to revolt and leave, not understanding that they’d still be controlled by a cock of a different perspective. But control it would certainly be.
So “Reformacock” led many hens and roosters to different hen houses but they were strangely decorated with the same symbols as before, and most of the same rules, wherein their new freedom wasn’t new at all–just different in details. And, everywhere there was chicken poop to be found. But by now, chicken poop (rebellion) was so common it was incorporated into the design of the new hen houses. It was even honored as the symbol of their new freedom.
New rules were tacked on the walls of every revolting hen house. They were told that those rules were different, even though they required nothing but more submission to the same old cock energies. The hens had to keep submitting, and the cocks were at least as much in control as ever–perhaps just a bit more cocky than before. The list of new rules seemed as endless as before as each chicken was forced to read them all and surrender to this “better way’ of being chickens. New “pooprule”–your poop is now holier than all past poop.
But once revolution starts, it never ends. Or so it seems. With other cocks seeing and experiencing the behavior of the self-focused ranchers, they decided that they too could control their very own group of hens. All they had to do was focus on one rule that was more important than the others and convince the chickens to follow them. The example of Reformacock was now an impending disaster for ranchers everywhere. All that the rebellious cocks had to do was declare which rule was most important. 95 rules? Yes, and soon there were 95 different poopy hen houses, now controlled by the rule that their cocky cock demanded was required by the chicken god up in the sky! The welfare of the empire was all that mattered to the cocks. Constantpain had been forgotten, or at least relegated to the status of the antique empire that they once knew, and though it was still in power here and there, it was no longer the “only” way to be a cock.
So the cocks that parted their feathers in a way that reflected rule #31, led their group as the “best way” to be. The cocks that jumped on the hens with their left foot first was following rule #49. Those who used their right foot first were following rule #8. Those who ate only corn–rule #67. Those who also ate other grains–rule #92. Those who served all the hens–rule #53. Those who had their own hen only–rule #17. Those who ate the eggs–rule #20. Those who didn’t eat them–rule #87. Those who could poop twice in a day–rule #95. And, on and on it went until there was absolutely zero unity in all the empire.
On his deathbed, Constantpain was so distraught at his failure to keep control, that he died by drowning in his own toilet. A fitting end to a control freak who refused to own his own shadow self. His own poop did him in at last.
And so, in the kingdom of pooping all was well in the chaos of 95 self-cocky hen houses, each proclaiming their own superiority over all others because their rule was the “only rule” that was important. Now, the consensus of the chicken-poop enthusiasts, was that only their hen house would be spared the chicken roaster in the end! All other flawed hen houses would be lucky if they escaped the flames. In all the self-cockiness and loving the pooping power of their favorite rule, there was no memory whatsoever of that rooster who had taught that “to own one’s poop and transform it into fertilizer for growth” was paramount. Self poopyness was now all that mattered.
But by now, all the chickens were totally unaware of the stench of their poopy ways. They had grown so used to all of it that even a breath of fresh air smelled strange and had to be rejected. “Shut that door” crowed the head rooster. Nothing from outside of our box of poop can be allowed to change our perspective on the real purpose of pooping. This was spoken as every chicken in the hen house was now covered with so much poop, it was normal. But, that was all lost in their addictions to being “more right” than all others.
Years passed before the next major crisis in poopdom. But surely it would come. For right there, in the midst of the loss of any self-worth, was to come a nightmare for the cocks. There was a powerful insurgency growing once again in the hen house. It is always true that any cock who refuses to look at his own reflection, will indeed be blindsided by what he refuses to see. And, sure enough, in the love of their own poop thrown onto others, there was little visible difference between a hen and a rooster.
One day when a hen was mistaken for a rooster, she had an intriguing idea. “What if I were just as powerful as a cock?” she mused. Now that would be a novel experience. Her imagination could not be quelled, as she envisioned groups of hens that had no need for roosters whatsoever. Her ideas began to take form as a sense of power, never before imagined, continued to be her experience. She knew that this newly experienced energy was more real, more satisfying, and more validating than any cock energy of control could ever be.
Her plans continued to take form as all the hens began to embrace her empowering insights. She and the others began meditating on the ancient teachings of that rooster who, years ago, taught that the feminine is equal to the masculine. He was killed for his radical notions–but he was right on and these hens knew it. As they began meeting in back of the hen house to practice their newly found inner powers, magic began to happen around them. Cocks were losing their influence in the face of the unexplained wisdom coming from these “wicked hens”–so labeled by the weaker roosters. “These ‘wickedchicks’ must be stopped,” screamed the impaled cocks. But the power of the “Wica-chicks” was real.
The roosters could only label everything these hens did as deserving of the flames of the chicken roaster. And, once again, as had always happened in the poop-fest of the chicken empire–anger, hatred, self-cockyness, fear, blame, scape-chickening, and shame came forth as the dark side of the weakest of all–the cocks. They had to act once again. This time the quest was to find all the secret Wica-chicks and roast them. The Wica-hunts began from the hearts of the cocks who’d dubbed themselves as the purest of all cocks–the Puricocks! And while they were able to burn a few Wica-chicks, they only ultimately destroyed their own pseudo authority.
The demise of cock superiority was to continue. At times only seen in their own mounting fear of the loss of their power over others. Other issues, formerly hidden, were about to be exposed. The kingdom of poop was disintegrating, though it would still be a while before its ultimate collapse.
The next exposure of “hycockrisy” came about when it was revealed that the cocks had been hiding something from the earliest days of C T’s reign as the very 1st Poop. In the back of every hen house in the original empire of C T there were roosters who’d been abusing the very young roosters. The bigger cocks had been preying on the little cocks, forcing them to serve their own selfish and degraded needs. When that scandal broke, the original hen house was never to regain its former fake luster of holy cockedness. The sham was over!
Some cocks were secretly having fun with each other. They were very happy and gay in those times. But any who were caught were thrown out of the hen house with great shame and disgust. All the while fun with the little cocks was not condemned. Hycockrisy was rampant. The hen house was doomed.
But as one way leads on to another, trouble in the hen house was just beginning to unfurl. The roosters weren’t about to understand that cock control had grave consequences. The shadow rooster energy had come down directly from Constantpain and C T and no cock was open to anything but their own ignorant past. What was life like before Constantpain? What are the hens and cocks experiencing in the lands beyond their small world? But since C T and the other known ranchers had burned all the ancient books, how could they possibly know what the truth is? All else than their “truth” was labeled as deceptions from Satancock. It was only with grave fear that one could dare explore beyond the rules of Constantpain. Fear of their own grave kept them bowing down to cock control even though, by now, the hens were making more sense than the cocks. Perhaps it was the energies of love and compassion in the hens that was shaking the cocks with fear and anger. After all, the one who loves is weak; so thought the cocks. The strong know the rules. Without rules there are divisions, cried the cocks; not understanding that it was always rules that tore things apart.
By this time, there were more and more chickens fed up with the egg tax. They felt over taxed and had to revolt. The Egg-baggers were formed to lead the revolt against it all. But all they could do was focus on more and more rules, not understanding that they were trapped in the same dark energies they were rebelling against. More chaos ensued.
To eat the fertilized eggs had long been condemned. Baby chicks were needed to increase the flock. Fertilized eggs were sacred and must be protected. The hens did their best to protect the unborn. But what did the ranchers do with the eggs they collected? A new wave of shock and unbelief swept through the hen house as the truth suddenly came into focus. “They eat them!” cried the hens. “They eat our babies!” screamed the whole hen house. Now, the cocks quickly tried to quell an uprising but to no avail. For even the cocks had eaten an egg now and then. “Abortion!” screamed the hens. And with that all sorts of pandemonium was released. “We no longer need cocks!” echoed through the chicken ranch.
Even though the hens organized and created Planned Chickenhood, even that was not enough. Because even then, some hens were aborting their chicks. The cocks tried to destroy Planned Chickenhood but this was seen as just more hycockrisy! More poop was flying everywhere.
By now all the chicken ranches were in disarray and dwindling everywhere. The next great cock-induced salvation was to build a mega-ranch where the larger the hen house, the better every chicken would feel. Then they added all sorts of distractions to make every cock feel good about being bigger and bigger. But were bigger cocks the answer? So with all the cock music and entertainment, louder and louder the cocks crowed with more volume and larger speakers. With more and more new rules, not a single cock was going to learn anything. Poop was smelling better and better as the crowds got bigger and bigger. The cockdom was in for inevitable destruction. (C T stirred even more in his tormented dream)
Soon the “a-chicks” began to speak out as the crowds in the mega hen houses were dwindling. The a-chicks refused to believe in any cock, especially that chicken cock Constantpain and his distortions. The a-chicks had no rules and with that they were more and more free than before. That chicken cock of old was now dead! Constantpain was dead too!
Out of chaos comes more chaos. Out of rules comes more fear. Out of rebellion comes the great question–“Now what?” As the news was spreading about the shrinking of the ranches, the distortions of the mega ranches, and the rebellion of the a-chicks, the darkest shadow over the hen houses farce to ever appear was now so evident it couldn’t be ignored. The ranchers had miserably failed. Poop-karma was everywhere. Poop had totally failed to control the chickens. And, with each day something strange was in the air. Rancher after rancher got sick and died. Cock after cock was being silenced by a strange disease that was now an epidemic–Karmpoop was catching up with all who had used the poop to rebel and control others. The death of all of Constantpain’s dreams was at hand.
In the most penetrating scream ever heard on any chicken ranch anywhere, C T awakened from his nightmare. Shaking as few have ever experienced, what was he to do? What did that dream mean? As he realized there never were any chicken ranches, he never was in control of anything and his inner landscape of secret desires had to be abandoned. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he realized that it was chicken poop that he was wiping away–not literally but he was now awakening to his own shadow, heretofore totally ignored and pushed away. The karma of pseudo control only entraps the one so blind in his demands for it, that he cannot see beyond his dream.
It was now or never for C T. Would he awaken to his shadow self, own his own “poop,” and transform it into what could be love in action, compassion for others, healing, nurturing, inclusion and more? A tough task for one who’d been asleep for his whole life? Indeed! What would your choice be?
–All rights reserved, Jim Stacey
(Any similarity between this story and the history of Christianity, is absolutely intentional–for the fuller story see my book, Liberating Jesus From Christianity, on Amazon.)
The chicken ranch idea was to only be a small part of the history of humanity. As we awaken to the false beliefs of fear-filled men, we now have choices beyond all the smallness of those who created “god” in their own image. May we all come to experience life beyond religion. You are The Divine in human form–nothing less except when one chooses to live without going on the quest to know the truth. What will your choices reveal to as you as you awaken to that reality. See MeetJimStacey.com