Five minutes, the fourth

Well, here it is. I actually sat and waited for the clock to tick over into a number happier with addition, so i could do the five. This is appalling and I completely blame my mathematics education. Completely. I am a big fan of blame. I talk about it all the time. And shame. love that one too.

My best friend in the world has a lot in common with me, and many differences, and vice versa. She has started sending me helpful articles on how to deal with shame. She also demands that I turn the heat on, vaccuum more often and buy ACs for every window that there is. HELLO WISCONSIN!!

I’m cool with that. She’s my best. We’ve sorrowed many times over the fact that we most likely can’t flipflop our sexual preferences. Many times. But when you know, you know. you know?

So we muddle on. She is very funny, and man, laughing is a great thing. we should all do it more.

This week I restarted my chicken chores. Feeding them, collecting their eggs, washing their eggs, boxing em up and as it turns out, driving them around until they are all gone. Full circle. I love the little biddies. They do make me laugh. So cantankerous and just rock-like in their intellect. But, what a community of ladies. A hen house, all the time. A hen party. A gaggle. They form little packs, hierarchy is very strong with them. There are many first wives, but we call them badass bitches, boss bitches. Loud, yes, and strong. Weirdly aggressive in the watching of the egg collection. Someone pecks my leg constantly while I stand there. Not especially effective against me, but certainly annoying. everyone has their time in the box, i think. motherhood is a part of it. and loss. and complacency, and acceptance in a way. bother. dash.

be careful though. they’ll kill you and eat your innards if you let your guard down. Yes they will. the fluffy nutters.

and five.

wow. so, there that one is.

sorry, not sorry.



photo of chicken
Thats a rooster, that one. None of those in my henhouse. Zero. Photo by Kirsten Bühne on

I am an egg, a good one.

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.


Just saying.


Eggs at The Flying Carrot Farm. Metaphor Dance Indeed.