This week I am trying something different. Rather than having the whole flock spend the morning in the coop, and taking all of them to the pen we call The Forest in the afternoon, I am dividing them up. We have an assortment of enclosures and with nothing more than a slice of bread I can entice four or five of them to follow me to Salamandastron, Columbine or Mossflower. Only the coop, called Redwall, has nesting boxes so I try to be aware of the incessant pacing reminiscent of a father-to-be from the fifties in the hospital waiting room. That means the hen needs to lay and I transfer her to the coop. 

But all of the pens have food, water and shade, and the girls will be safe from foxes. Still, they protest. Breakfast with the twins this morning had a background chatter of Leghorns in the coop that wanted to be in Mossflower, or Rhode Island Reds in Columbine that insisted they be moved to Salamandastron. 

It reminds me of me. 

When I am sewing I think I should be writing. When I am cleaning I believe I ought to be doing errands.

The other morning I was with a young woman who was feeling discontent with being single. Although her job is rewarding, and her apartment straight out of a chic magazine, she wants to live a different life.

In the afternoon I listened to a friend who is antsy to leave her husband. Although she had long dreamed of marrying and having children, now that she is knee deep in toys she is dissatisfied. 

While there is absolutely a place for change, sometimes I think contentment gets short shrift. Maybe there is a case for accepting what I have been given.

Besides, while I am the first to agree that my chicken raising skills are flawed,  the One who is pasturing me has plenty of experience.