I love to read, and I’ve always loved reading. Even as a child, I loved books. I wrote my own, and I voraciously devoured (and redevoured) borrowed books from the library. When I was transferring to yet another new school as a child, my mom would take me on a tour of the school library as a way to win me over. I vividly remember touring the first grade library: the brightness of the blue globe sitting atop the end of a shelf and the seemingly endless shelves of books waiting for me to savor them word by word building up to sentences, paragraphs, and then whole worlds awaiting discovery. Yes, I was hooked.
The last time I got a haircut about eight months ago, I was an anxious ball of blah. I had biked over to a local Great Clips and surrendered myself like a sacrificial victim. For one, I don’t usually have access to a car during the work day because my husband needs it for his commute and we’re a one-car family and all. For two, I’m cheap, so Great Clips it is. For three, I genuinely feel anxious and uncomfortable whenever I need a haircut.
I understand that animals live and die and that chickens are no exception. Usually, on our little suburban homestead, chickens die very purposefully: to be eaten and to make room for new layers. Of course, I care for the chickens that we eat though a few of our chickens are jerks. On the flip side, a couple of our chickens are pets and have earned themselves a name. Yesterday, my pet chicken Ianigena died of unknown causes.