My hens are hiding out today which rather unnerves me. It is unsettling because hens have their own wills and don’t do what I ask, when I ask them. I discovered that in an earlier post. Hens are not cardboard cut-out characters in a story of my imagination. I do not exclusively own the narrative that is my life, neither do I make all the rules. That is called a “fantasy,” I believe.

In my head, hens are charming and agreeable pals and we enjoy adventures together. True. But in my head I discovered a not accurate idea: the fiction that anyone, hen or human being, should be what I want them to be, or do what I want them to do, when I want them to do it.

It is not clear why I am disappointed with my discovery. Nobody consciously believes that to be true. Do they? Except maybe politicians and CEOs.

Maybe human beings start off with an unformed idea of what life is like, then by education, religion, cultural agendas- for good or ill- their perception of ‘reality’ is formed. Or maybe the world imposes an existence so difficult that one cannot solve it by human strength or reason alone? Like children trying to solve complex math problems (unless you are a brilliant genius at math), people flounder. Finding meaning takes second seat to paying bills and putting food on the table.

Whatever the cause of us living in a kind of underworld of our making, where we make the rules and are accountable to no one is a fantasy and a lousy one. There can be no authentic love, no absolution, and no genuine liberty in that existence. There is only what our sensory perception and imagination tells us to be “real.” We have to look beyond our own selves and our own imaginations to find what is true, and beautiful and good!

Time to play “Find the Hens” now. My hens hideout is the most enormous, most prickly, most tangled chaotic bush in the yard. An overgrown forsythia the size of a swimming pool. I’d need a chainsaw to gain access. Fortunately Buffy is an oat enthusiast, and loyal Lady stays close by.

Time to come home hens! Oats!