I booked two weeks off work.
I had plans.
Rest. Writing. Quiet time with the Lord. Getting a few things done. Perhaps even returning to work refreshed.
It was going to be glorious.
Instead, I appear to have spent two weeks doing everything except resting.
I’d like a refund.
The trouble with free time is that it doesn’t remain free for very long. It’s more like an unattended parking space. Leave it empty for approximately thirty seconds and something else gets in it.
One of the things we’d planned to do was cancelled. After we had travelled there and made our temporary abode, only 36 hours later a serious incident meant the event was cancelled and we had to leave. Obviously the circumstances were far more important than our holiday plans, but it did leave us unexpectedly trying to work out what on earth to do with the rest of the week.
Then there were chickens to rehome, building materials arriving, an outside room to sort out, a husband with a bad back, a dog who continues to regard walking nicely on a lead as an unreasonable infringement of his civil liberties, and, naturally, I decided this would also be an excellent time to start embellishing jackets.
Because apparently what I needed during my restful fortnight was another project.
The Chickens Were Served Notice
After approximately two years of chicken ownership, I have reached a conclusion.
I wish we’d never got chickens or rather, I wish we’d got fewer chickens. But if you’re a chicken keeper, you will know about what they call chicken maths. You go to get two and come back with six, then twelve then go back for more. There’s just one problem. Chicken maths equals manure maths.
There. I’ve said it.
Gareth wanted chickens. I wasn’t particularly bothered about having them, although when we first got them I did enjoy them. They were ridiculously cute when they were little, they had funny little personalities, and when I had more time, watching their antics could actually be quite calming.
Then life got busier.
Work. Writing a book. The blog. Trying to manage three businesses. General life.
And chickens, I discovered, do not become less demanding simply because you have become more busy.
Before the Facebook Poultry Tribunal convenes, the chickens have gone to a lovely home with a garden where they can spend far more time outside, which is exactly what I wanted for them.
Because I’ve learned never to read the comments on a Facebook chicken group.
Someone can innocently post:
“Does anyone know how I can stop my chicken knocking over its water?”
Seventeen minutes later, strangers are questioning their suitability to own animals, their moral character, their childhood and possibly the state of their marriage.
And the poor person is sitting there thinking:
I just wanted a heavier water bowl.
Surely it’s better to admit that your life has changed and responsibly rehome them somewhere with more room to poo than keep them purely because you’re frightened of offending Facebook.
And believe me, they need the room.
Because chickens apart from being fun are quite possibly the most disgusting creatures I have ever encountered.
Six or seven chickens don’t poo.
They stage a manure massacre. Hence manure maths.
Gareth has spent approximately two years attempting to solve the chicken-water problem.
They poo in the water.
New water solution.
They poo on top of the water solution.
New water solution.
They knock it over.
Another water solution.
They find an entirely new and previously unforeseen method of contaminating it.
At no point have the chickens acknowledged Gareth’s considerable contribution to poultry sanitation.
Then there’s the cost.
People talk about keeping chickens as though you’re going to wander into the garden every morning, collect your lovely free eggs and congratulate yourself on your self-sufficient lifestyle.
Free?
By the time you’ve bought the chickens, the house, the fox-proofing, bedding, food, grit, feeders, drinkers and seventeen generations of increasingly sophisticated water-containment technology, one of them eventually produces an egg worth about 30p.
Thank you.
Excellent return on investment.
So yes, the chickens have gone.
And I have never been so relieved to see chickens leave.
Zeb’s Forbidden Delicatessen
There was, however, one member of the household who was considerably less pleased by their departure.
Zeb.
Because while the rest of us saw chickens, Zeb apparently saw catering.
I have watched this dog turn his nose up at a perfectly decent bowl of food as though I’ve personally insulted him.
But chicken droppings?
Apparently we’re dining at The Ritz.
He would actually follow the chickens around waiting for a fresh delivery.
There are things you expect when you get a dog.
Walks. Mud. Hair. Vet bills.
You do not expect to find yourself standing in the garden shouting:
“ZEB! NO!”
at a dog who is apparently treating a chicken as a mobile snack dispenser.
Once you’ve witnessed that, there are some things you simply cannot unsee.
The Peaceful Sanctuary That Doesn’t Exist Yet
The former chicken area is now being turned into an outside room.
Eventually.
Gareth sees an office.
I see somewhere I can disappear to where nobody can find me.
Same building. Entirely different aspirations.
Unfortunately, we’re still probably another couple of weeks away from it being finished, so I have successfully removed the chickens but have not yet received the solitude.
And naturally, building an outside room involves materials.
Materials need delivering.
Materials need moving.
Materials, I have discovered, have apparently been designed for people with hands considerably larger than mine.
I attempted to help Gareth carry some of it and genuinely thought there was a reasonable chance my shoulder would remain attached to the delivery while the rest of me continued towards the garden.
Then Gareth hurt his back.
So that was restful.
Meanwhile, In the Morning…
I’ve also realised something else during my time off.
I desperately need quiet.
Gareth is a morning talker.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with this. He wakes up and has thoughts.
Most of them are fully formed.
He can apparently go from unconscious to conversational in approximately eight seconds.
I need a phased return.
I need quiet.
I need coffee.
I need the Lord.
And then, somewhere considerably further down the list, I may become available for conversation.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with my husband wanting to talk to his wife.
Unfortunately, his wife is unavailable.
Her body may be downstairs, but her personality is still buffering.
Isn’t it funny how God puts two people together who can be complete opposites?
Because while Gareth is ready to discuss life, plans and whatever else has occurred to him since opening his eyes, I am increasingly realising that if I don’t get some quiet time with the Lord, the rest of my day can very quickly become me operating entirely in the flesh rather than the Spirit.
And then there’s Zeb.
Management Would Like a Word
Zeb knows my morning routine.
Alarm.
Mum is awake.
Mum gets out of bed.
Kettle.
Coffee.
Mum is drinking coffee.
And from his cage comes…
The stare.
Now, before anybody worries, Zeb is perfectly happy in his cage. He goes in there voluntarily, he can turn around, lie down and eat perfectly comfortably. In fact, at night nowadays he wanders around the room glancing into his cage as if asking permission to go in to bed, it’s his sanctuary. I can’t wait for mine…
The problem isn’t the cage.
The problem is the eyes.
Border Collie eyes.
Intense eyes.
Eyes apparently attempting to move a grown woman telepathically.
We’re going.
We’re going.
We’re going.
Gareth can open the cage and a normal dog comes out.
Because Zeb knows Gareth isn’t taking him for the morning walk.
I open the cage and:
THE EVENT HAS COMMENCED.
Suddenly I have a furry management consultant following me around the house attempting to hurry the process along.
“Zeb. Stop.”
I’m helping.
“Sit.”
Why?
“Lie down.”
This seems like an unnecessary delay.
I go to the toilet.
He follows me.
Then sits outside looking increasingly inconvenienced by the fact that my bladder has been allowed to interfere with his schedule.
“Zeb, go away.”
But who will supervise you?
Then I realise I’ve forgotten the lead.
For goodness’ sake, woman.
Eventually we reach the door.
“Sit.”
Sit.
“Wait.”
Door opens.
His entire body:
RIGHT. GO.
“Wait.”
And then we begin the daily negotiations.
Zeb pulls.
“No. Zeb. Back.”
He comes back.
Walks nicely for approximately one second.
Then:
Excellent. I completed the requirement. Forward.
No.
Heel means stay here.
It isn’t a one-time administrative requirement.
That wasn’t specified.
The problem is that I’ve heard so much dog-training advice over time that my brain now contains several trainers simultaneously issuing conflicting instructions.
Turn around.
Don’t keep turning around.
Reset.
Don’t over-reset.
Go home.
Don’t go home for that.
Change direction.
U-turn.
Keep moving.
Stop moving.
At some point I cease being a woman walking her dog and become a woman trying to remember the terms and conditions of an extremely complicated insurance policy.
After five days of attempting the delayed walk, I eventually chose one approach to stick with. This includes changing direction when he pulls.
This would be considerably easier if the path from our house to the communal garden wasn’t so narrow that Zeb can simply duck around me and return to exactly the position he occupied before.
U-turn.
Zeb goes round.
U-turn.
Zeb goes round.
At this point we’re not technically walking.
We’re performing a very angry form of line dancing.
He also knows “watch me.”
Beautifully.
In the house.
In the garden.
Put another human being somewhere within the same postcode and suddenly:
OH LOOK. A PERSON.
“Zeb. Watch me.”
I’m sorry, have we met?
The frustrating thing is that he can do all of this stuff.
We practise obedience. Impulse control. Waiting. Calmness.
He can be brilliant at home.
Apparently these qualifications are not transferable to other locations.
And of course he’s a young working-type dog who needs exercise, so if a walk ends because he’s too wound up, he gets less exercise, which potentially leaves him even more wound up for the next walk. He still gets plenty of stimulation at home, though.
An absolutely marvellous system.
So this morning, rather than attempt international negotiations over a walk, I trained him in the garden instead.
I’ve also returned to the Halti for walking from now on because it gives me more control until we get there, and then he can heel on the way back, which he does like a dream once he’s had his fun.
I’ve now accepted that some of this may simply improve as he matures.
Apparently that could be somewhere around two to two and a half years old.
Which, by my current calculations, is approximately 225 years from now.
Because apparently we’re going to be working on this until 2251.
The saving grace is that once we’re back indoors and the outside world has switched off, he settles and becomes the ridiculously loving, affectionate dog I adore.
So clearly there is a functioning brain in there.
We just can’t always access it outdoors.
I can relate.
Obviously, I Needed Another Project
Somewhere amongst all this rest and relaxation, I decided to start embellishing jackets.
Because when life is already full, the obvious solution is craft supplies.
Before anybody stages a financial intervention, the jackets are second-hand Vinted finds, mostly around £5 or £6, and I had money specifically put aside for the project.
I may have temporarily lost control of my available hours, but I haven’t completely abandoned the budget.
I have, however, developed opinions about nailheads.
Black ones.
Gold ones.
Rhinestones.
Sizes.
Templates.
Placement.
Things I had absolutely no opinion about several weeks ago have suddenly become matters requiring serious consideration.
The postage on one order was sufficiently offensive that I’m expecting the parcel to arrive with its own chauffeur.
And somewhere amongst all of this…
I actually wrote some of my book.
I know.
I was surprised too.
My New Retreat Centre
So what have I learned from my relaxing two weeks off?
Mostly that the busier life gets, the more I need quiet.
Not just the absence of noise.
Actual stillness.
Time with the Lord where I’m not simultaneously thinking about the next job, the next delivery, the next conversation, the next idea, the next jacket, the next problem requiring a container Gareth hopes the chickens can’t poo in, or apparently the next 225 years of discussions with Zeb about the lead.
I’ve noticed how easily I can slip into operating from frustration and tiredness instead of from the Spirit when I don’t make room to stop.
And I’ve realised that stillness can’t be something I promise myself I’ll get around to once everything else is finished.
Because everything is never finished.
There will always be something else.
Sometimes I need to deliberately make room to be quiet with the Lord before I try to make room for everything else.
Which is why I’ve discovered a new retreat centre.
My car.
I’ve started going and sitting in it.
Not driving anywhere.
Just sitting.
Alone.
Apparently my Toyota is now a retreat centre.
Nobody needs anything.
Nobody is talking.
There are no chickens.
There is no dog staring at me.
There is just me, some quiet, and an opportunity to be still with the Lord before my brain has to deal with everybody else’s brain.
So if you happen to see a woman sitting alone in a parked Toyota doing absolutely nothing, don’t worry.
I’m not lost.
I’m on retreat.
And please, whatever you do…
don’t ask me to move the car.
