That time I had a duckling as a pet

Spending my summers in western Maine as a kid was idyllic because of the setting, but also because my sister and I had unusual pets for kids that spent most of their lives in Boston. One year we had rabbits. Another summer, my sister raised a pig. When I was 9, my aunt Eva was rearing ducklings and gave one to my sister and me. We named the duckling Quackers. I know, so original.

Quackers followed my family around our lakeside cottage beseeching us for cracked corn and bits of bread. Quackers floated around the cove, snacked on water bugs and did who-knows-what at night. Yet, every morning, Quackers was on the shore patiently waiting for us. In late August, we left for Boston to go back to school and brought Quackers to my grandfather’s farm. My grandfather watched Quackers progress with her solo flying lessons and reported that she flew off one chilly October morning and didn’t return.

The following June, my family was back at the lake for the summer. A duck floated up with 8 ducklings trailing behind her. She looked at us as if to say, “Remember me?” Quackers and her brood of ducklings made their way onto the shore and waited patiently while we scrambled to find the cracked corn.

That was 38 years ago. A duck has shown up every summer since to raise her ducklings in the secluded safety of the cove and marsh near my parent’s summer cottage. The ducklings sit on the shore near the house, resting and preening themselves, and receiving an occasional meal of cracked corn. They do their duck things—paddling around, eating aquatic plants and bugs, growing,  and learning to fly. Each summer, I greet ducklings in June and watch them grow into adults that are indistinguishable from their mother by August. Each and every year, ducks return and raise their babies here.

Like the ducks, I return to this lake in western Maine over and over again. I’m here now. My mother grew up on a farm one mile away. My grandfather was born and lived there his entire life. As did my great-grandparents. Since 1785, my maternal ancestors have lived within a 50 mile radius of this spot.

I’ve come here when I’ve been lost, heartbroken, and hopeless. I’ve come here when illness ravaged my body. I’ve come to celebrate my healing from open-heart surgery. I’ve come when I feel peaceful. I’ve come when I feel joyous and equanimous and just meh. No matter how I show up, I always leave feeling better than when I arrived.

Like Quackers, and her successive generations of offspring who continue to raise their ducklings here, this spot in Maine is sātmya for me. The Sanskrit word sātmya, pronounced saht-ME-yuh, means that which is wholesome when used consistently over an individual’s lifetime. Our genetics influence what makes a food, habit, or place sātmya for us. What is sātmya for you, may not be sātmya for me, and vice versa. The Āyurvedic concept of sātmya encourages us to eat food that nourished our mother and grandmothers. And to live a lifestyle that, when continually used, sustains and fortifies us. When we eat, drink, and live in ways that are sātmya for us, we grow in health.

When we work together, I’m noticing the food, drink, and lifestyle that gives you consistently good health. Understanding and applying sātmya helps us shift from surviving to thriving.

So, what did your grandmothers and great-grandmothers eat? And how do you feel when you consume those foods? Are there habits that improve your health when you use them consistently? Is there a place in the world where you feel your most vibrant? I’d love to hear from you, so drop me an email and let me know how the concept of sātmya lands for you.