in search of stillness

It's been quiet over here on the blog, and I've been seeking a bit of the same in our day to day lives.

Oh, but that is hard to find in the daily grind, moving from laundry and cooking and cleaning to classes and appointments and obligations. I've been longing for some stillness amidst the trying two-year-old (any advice on weathering tantrums would be so gladly received; I swear the first two kids were never this challenging!) and the growing list of things to be done before the snow sticks. And just as my youngest child is challenging me in new ways, I am finding parenting in general to be a bit more demanding.

I can usually find space to rejuvenate among the constancy of young children, but then again, I've never been at this for so long before. Each day feels like a new effort in finding peace in the moments. I've had the desire lately to be without the kids for an extended time, something I've never had or felt before, and something that isn't likely to happen anytime soon. (Oh, I almost feel like a bad mom for admitting it, but we all need a break sometime, don't we?) Instead, I am working at remembering what I know about slowing down, letting go and creating the moments of serenity I crave.

As we drove through the woods on our way home from today's field trip, the children, who had been quiet in the back seat, suddenly asked for me to turn the car. Turn the car! And so we found ourselves with a much needed break from the demands of the day and an open expanse of stillness and beauty to enjoy. The children must have needed it as much as I did.

I know so many of you feel the busyness of these days, whether it be with young children or demanding jobs or both (and more). How is it that you find stillness in your days?

However it may be, I hope you're finding all that you need...

in tribute

For a while now, I've been meaning to write an update on our sweet chickens.



The post I planned to write would tell you of the place these birds have occupied in my family's hearts; how each morning, they would greet us with their sweet cluck-clucks as we let them out into the yard and brought them their breakfas; how they would perch on the deck at dusk, waiting for us to carry them back to their coop and tuck them in safely for the night.



You would hear of how the chickens tapped their beaks at the back door when they wanted us to come out to play and would eagerly follow us about the yard, especially interested in any digging that took place in the garden, happily eating worms and seeds out of our hands.





It turned out that of our five hatchlings, three were roosters. We held on to them as long as we could, but eventually they became too noisy for our suburban lot (though the neighbors swore they loved the sounds). Oh, but those roosters did their jobs, keeping their hens safe and letting out a distinct "bawk-bawk-bawk-bakawk" that signalled the presence of the hawk who would sometimes swoop down on them. The language of chickens is compelling. I never imagined they would be so complex, have so much personality or become so dear to us.



Recently, the hens started laying -- the most perfect, tiny brown eggs you ever saw.

It was almost like Easter in our yard each day, as the hens were a bit confused about where to lay.We'd search them out, sometimes finding eggs on the ground just outside the coop, sometimes on the side of the garage, even in the shed. One was laid on our front porch. The larger hen had the habit of disappearing, going off on adventures to lay her eggs where we would not find them. We took to calling her Louise (like the main character in Louise, The Adventures of a Chicken). Naturally, the other hen became Thelma, though the children preferred the names Henny and Henny Penny.

But this post is not the one I wanted to write about our chickens. This post has a different ending. We returned home the other night to be greeted by our neighbor, who sweetly told us (out of earshot of the kiddos) how she ran out of her house and tried to stop it. She did her best to save our hens, but that hawk was swift and successful. In our front yard we found Louise, there but no longer with us. Thelma is nowhere to be found, having either run off in fear or been carried off by the hawk.

It all made me feel so humbled. I feel as though I failed these birds, who required so little of us but brought us so much in return. For some reason, the roosters meeting their end at our hands didn't bother me, but failing to protect the sweet hens seems an unforgivable error.

There will be more chickens, I am sure. We will likely wait until the spring and try it all again, hopefully with a bit more wisdom and experience gained along the way. But these birds -- the first birds we hatched and raised and fell in love with -- will always have a special place in our hearts.