Every morning before I open my laptop, I go outside. I fill the feeders, check the water, scatter some scratch, and just stand there for a few minutes watching my chickens do exactly what chickens do. They scratch. They gossip. They find something fascinating in a patch of dirt that looks identical to every other patch of dirt.
It took me longer than I would like to admit to realize that this was not a chore I was doing for them. It was a practice I was doing for myself. A forced pause before the noise of the day started. A reminder that some things just take the time they take.
Homestead life, even small-scale homestead life like mine, has a rhythm that is completely indifferent to your to-do list. The animals need what they need when they need it. There is something deeply corrective about that for a woman whose brain never fully stops.