Wormholes in Chicken Space

In addition to the mop-up operation following grass-gate and the need to repudiate fake news (see previous post), this week has been full of office politics at work (a game I have never mastered) and hard labour in the house and garden (our own fault for buying into the dream of acquiring a run-down cottage).  Fatigue has crept into my bones and I must face the reality I’ve been so stubbornly denying …….I am no longer a spring chicken.  This begs the question, what happens to energy as we get older?  I eat in the same quantities so the same amount of energy is going in.  I’m not getting any fatter, so where does it go?

On the plus side we now have a lovely place to sit and eat in the garden.  I took advantage of this to have my breakfast the other morning before work.  What a joy to sit beneath a beautiful blue sky eating eggs with bright yellow yokes and watching the hens going about their business.

The trouble is as I sat there I started noticing the next ten jobs lining up to be done.  The garden wall is leaning ominously, there are weeds in the flowerbeds, there are piles of wood that need chopping, an old oil tank needs removing…………….. you get the picture.  And then I start feeling fidgety again.

The same thing happens if I sit on the bench at the top of the garden that has a glorious view over the opposite hillside.  I can’t help noticing the half-finished vegetable patch I’m sitting in with yet another crop of weeds marauding through it.

How do I overcome this?  I used to be able to switch off no bother.  So why do I now pressure myself to get everything done?  Where has this ‘must finish’ feeling come from?  Is it part of my general anxiety?  How do I banish it once and for all?  It’s stupendously annoying.

It seems I must re-learn patience.  Strangely there does seem to be a spot in the garden where I am able to practice this ancient art.  It’s like a wormhole in space, a still point in the vortex of daily life.  It’s a spot about midway up the garden and next to the chicken run.  I’ve found that if I get a camping chair out and just sit there I can do just that, just sit there.  The weird thing is that the chickens are not in the run.  They’re roaming freely around the garden.  Invariably they come and bumble about around me, carrying out their chickeny activities at my feet or even under my chair.  I’m sure they would do this wherever I chose to sit but it seems that only this spot will do for me.  Just like Kermit’s nephew, halfway up the stairs is the stair where I sit.

It’s a start.

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