We often associate the word “ritual” with religious practices, but a broader definition in the Merriam-Webster dictionary describes it as something that is “always done in a particular situation and in the same way each time.”
Brewing a pot of coffee each morning is a ritual. So is sitting down with a mug of tea and a book every night. Ritual is an integral part of life. Never is that more true, for me, than when I release our three hens from their coop at the dawn of each new day.
As night is about to relinquish its hold on the world, I head out to the garage to get things ready. Feed. Water. A disposable glove and a bucket, for poop removal. Maybe some crushed oyster shells, which chickens willingly eat from time to time when they need extra calcium.
The route from the garage to the coop takes me along a winding, stone-bordered path. Walking on the wood chips that cover the path creates a sense of anticipation as I look forward to greeting Snow, Nellie and Hope once again.
The trip isn’t always idyllic. Sometimes it’s pouring. During the winter months, I may have to shovel my way out there, or brave the bitter cold. But on a dry day at this time of the year, heading out to the coop as the surrounding vegetation slowly emerges from the darkness remains simple and pleasant.
Approaching the coop from the east, the first sign of life usually pops up in the east-facing window. Literally. On any given morning, Snow, our white Plymouth Rock, can be found bouncing around at that window, demanding to be let out into the pen for breakfast.
I place the water and feed bowls in the pen, which abuts the south side of the coop, and scatter a few handfuls of feed on the ground. Snow is at the south window by then, above the coop door, watching me work. Sometimes, Rhode Island Red Nellie joins her there. Unlatching the coop door, I greet each chicken by name as she bops down the ramp, running my hand along her back when she emerges. Often, sleepyhead Hope, a Rhode Island Red, needs a bit of a nudge to get her off the roost and out the door.
After watching the hens for a few seconds to see if they look healthy and are behaving normally, I lift the hinged roof on the coop to scoop out the night’s “offerings.” In the warm weather, I install a screen window on the east side of the coop. Then I squat down beside the pen to exchange pleasantries with the hens for a minute or so. We don’t really understand one another, but I like to think that the chickens share the enjoyment I get from these “conversations.” Snow is especially attentive.
My routine completed, I always tell the hens that I’ll see them “in a bit,” meaning several hours later, at snack time. I head back to the garage, then to the warm glow of the house.
There is satisfaction to be found in the quotidian.
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