Sometimes, busy takes on a life of it’s own. There busy is running up the hill in front of me as I chase behind, hand out calling, limping, dragging myself to catch up.
And this year is particularly so. This last week, I found myself running around finishing course work for the agricultural-course-that-would-never-end. All the while, the children fed on biscuits and binge-watched lego movies. Occasionally, our farmer would arrive at the door, equally as busy, flummoxed because someone else was looking for something for the shed-that-would-never-be-finished. Are we seeing a pattern emerging?
“Well I don’t have it! Honestly.”
“Seriously, would ye switch off the telly, it’s lovely outside?”
“But it’s freezing.” “Put on your jackets. Mom has to study.”
And study I would. For five minutes until a call would come again. “I’m hungry.” “Get out of the pantry.” “But he had two.” “I don’t care.”
Oh dear, the habits I’ll have to break as I put two biscuits on my own plate alongside my third cup of coffee.
Himself is at the door again. Another drama. As everything is tinged with a bit of drama in the spring when you’re sleep deprived or you’re worried about an animal. Or indeed, it has been freezing and the grass isn’t growing.
And it’s stressful in a farmhouse when everyone is busy. Just one more week I tell them and I’ll finish this course. And it will all be fine.
And so, this evening, I chased busy up the field. Busy the errant cow as she broke through fences. Her comrades decided to follow her and what began as a gentle walk down the field to get my steps in whilst helping himself turned into a 5 K run (I did say dramatic didn’t I?) to bring in the cows who ran in search of greener pastures.
Eventually, when I stopped all the hopping and cursing and roaring for himself to come down, or something along those lines, the cows, their bellies full, decided to obediently wonder up the right road on hearing their real master’s call. And so, this busy mother , now qualified farmer, slowed down to take in the view, the sunset, the lovely spring evening, slipping her hand into her farmer’s hand for a tiny stolen moment.
At Easter, we rise again.
Happy Easter. x