I got back out to the chickens today, after a good long haul where I just couldn’t. My energy is still flipping low and my chest feels like there is a large prickly snowball in the middle of it. (thank you so much breakthrough covid.)
But there I was, moving slowly, slipping, even falling once, but out there with the ladies, feeling happy. I feel redundant telling you how much joy it brings me, but so it is. It does. I absolutely adore it.
And the eggs. So many eggs. It is my second favorite part of this job, getting my hands on and appreciating so much variety and beauty, and all the metaphor I can handle.
They come in all sizes, all colorings. I adore all of that. I find it incredibly easy to overlook the shit. Which is, in general, fabulously true of me. Win win. (because, why? why look at the shit, when there is a beautiful wildly miraculous thing to be seen as well, always. And anyhow, you can use the shit to grow things, so… )
SO here I am, realizing I am an egg.
I’m stronger than I look. I can hold the weight of things four and five times my size. And yet, there is a fragility to me. Outside forces better treat me right or I cause a hell of a mess and peel the paint right off your car.
I nourish many people. I can be quite colorful, and I can fade into the background, adding substantial protein to the mix. I am versatile.
I AM A GODDAMNED GOOD EGG.