John designed three of my chicken coops. Two of them have the amazing feature of being completely enclosed in hardware cloth, such that I do not need to open them in the morning or close them at dusk. The flock simply goes upstairs to sleep. On top of the chicken runs are raised beds which I will plant in a few weeks. Not only can I garden without kneeling, the chickens can't find the lettuce. 

The chicks that hatched in February are still learning about the ramp. Sometimes one will be cheeping sadly after everyone hurried downstairs. She cannot figure out where the family went, even though she can hear the mamas clucking. Gradually she remembers, and scurries down to find breakfast. 

Another wonderful aspect of the coops is that entire walls come off. When I choose to give the inhabitants of a pen an outing, I pull out the wooden peg and lift off the wall. Then the mamas hop over the threshold, instructing their children to follow. It is amazing really. The two by four that serves as a floor base is easily twice as high as a three day old chick, yet they manage to scale it. Two white, one black and six silvery gray fluff balls all hurry to join the digging party. I love to watch.

Almost every day there are a few stragglers who pace back and forth anxiously along a wall. The flock will have gone out the door, around the side and to the softest dirt behind the pen. While they are happily scratching on the other side of the hardware cloth the birds still inside feel trapped. Tricked. Left behind. I have tried to explain that the way to get to where they want to be is to head the opposite direction, if only for a few seconds. Once outside they can go around the corners and join the group. But they are too preoccupied with looking for the door, which has obstinately moved again.

More often than I would like to admit I crawl inside the coop to scoop up frantic babies and carry them outside. Ironic that the raised beds keep me off my knees but the hens bring me to them. 

Sometimes it reminds me of my own inability to get where I want to go.

My mind was focused on the goal of Benjamin getting ready for the bus in time. For too long I plunged straight ahead, nagging, and prodding, which had the effect of rendering him sloth like. I felt trapped.

Then before Christmas I decided to back off. I came into his room, flipped on the light and turned on his favorite music. And walked away.

Astonishingly, he came down showered and fully dressed, in good time for cereal. No arguing, no hen pecking. For the first time in ages, our minutes before school were cheery.  

I had finally found the door.