Ten days ago I gave a keynote speech in Indianapolis in front of a large group of women who had no idea who I was. The organizer of the all-day event booked me on the basis of a hunch after reading one of my blogs.
I spoke. As I hoped – and expected – the audience engaged with me immediately and listened attentively throughout. I left the venue feeling like I had made a few new friends and opened up fresh ways of thinking about mid-life’s joys and challenges.
One week later, I spoke in front of an entirely different group. Same topic. Same demographic. Almost the same speech. The difference? I was in my hometown – in front of many people – who knew me before boobs and braces. And the majority had been reading my column for years. Enveloped in a cocoon of warmth, I was satisfied with the evening’s favorable outcome. It too was expected.
It was what happened BETWEEN those two events that shook me to the core.
I left Indianapolis at 5pm on a beautiful autumn afternoon. ETA in Cincinnati was 7:15pm according to my GPS – even with anticipated short intervals of congestion due to construction on the interstate.
What I didn’t expect? A massive semi tumbling over on its side – blocking all three lanes of eastbound traffic ten miles ahead. Cars and trucks came to a complete standstill for over an hour.
I congratulated myself on having not stopped for coffee before cruising onto the entrance ramp – thus alleviating a full bladder. I congratulated myself for having a fully charged phone beside me, a container of homemade granola mix – thoughtfully provided by the host of the women’s one day event – in my lap. And for having the foresight to gas up to capacity immediately after packing up my luggage and speech props.
So I was feeling pretty prepared for a delayed arrival back in Cincinnati – until, that is, I noticed the truck in the right lane just ahead of me.
I inched forward to get a closer look.
The contents of that huge truck remained beside me for the entire time I was trapped in that massive traffic tie-up on I-74.
I saw those tiny cubicles. I witnessed the chickens’ confinement. I studied their limited movement. I realized though my destination was a warm bed and welcoming relatives, I knew that was not what awaited them. Each chicken had one and only one destination. And that was death.
Rationally, I knew when I bit into a chicken keg, I was eating the leg of an animal. Rationally, I knew when my husband grilled skinless chicken breasts on the grill, that the white meat didn’t grow on a tree. Rationally, I knew when my children devoured plate after plate of chicken wings as teenagers they weren’t eating tofu.
Sure I had seen documentaries about our need to move to a more plant based diet to aid in reducing our carbon footprint. Sure I had heard nutritionists and doctors pushing a diet filled with whole grains, fruits, and vegetables for optimal health. Sure I had tons of friends extolling the virtues of a vegan or vegetarian regimen.
Whether pieces of them would end up as Chicken McNuggets or in a basket of fried chicken at a family picnic, looking at those chickens for sixty minutes – cooped up in cages – was a mind-altering event.
I’m not saying I’ll never eat chicken again, but if and when I do, it will never again be as pleasurable, as tasteful nor as mindlessly enjoyable.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor