I want to love my chickens, I really do. They are so funny and sweet. But they are so very shy and stand-offish.

They tease me with their little pecks at my shoelaces, and occasionally one will jump onto my lap for a brief spell. But soon they scoot off and scuttle away from my hands.

I simply want to hold them to my chest and win them over with my maternal instincts.

But by and large, they are not cuddlesome. They don’t want to snuggle.

When I reach for them they huff and SQUAWK and run away.

And so I must observe them quietly, appreciate them from a distance. Like the soccer mom I used to be, I must hold back, and not rush in to hug my son after the game.

Lately, I think loving my chickens is a bit like loving my grown up children.

They have both left the nest, independent adults now – out from under my wing and away from my beady little eye.

we relish the sweetness, savor the transitory

Mothering has always been a story of letting go. Even back then when they were small, I understood that there was a shelf life on those childhood snuggles. I always knew the time for wide-open intimacy was finite.

So for now I leave my lap empty, but ready, my arms open for hugs. Waiting for a smile, an embrace, a big kiss if I’m lucky. A visit in the backyard with my son, a Face Time with my daughter. They are thin substitutes, but I’ll take them.

I think it’s just life for all of us these days.

We monitor the distance between our bodies, and try to make up the difference in our hearts – we squeeze a little tighter, hold on a beat longer. We relish the sweetness, savor the transitory.

And we imagine the fullness of a love that transcends the body – is that possible?

A place where memory and imagination must fill in the blanks.

And I wonder: How much of love is in the intention rather than the actuality?