Waking up in the morning, waking, slightly, I wouldn’t say up. Bright and early, no, I wouldn’t even say bright. I cringe slightly in my blissfully irrupted sleep, deprived of the condiment of morning turning light before I open my eyes. I roll over, hitting the snooze until the rays of morning seep into the hills, into the frozen blades of grass, the line of trees circling around the edge of a quaint hill country valley. They come into the skylights after me. I can almost hear the wind rising, welcoming the day, knocking on the window as if to inquire about my apparent laziness in the early morning hours. The one thing I do hear for certain, the thing that brings memory of exactly why the alarm is yelling at me to crawl out from under my warm cozy covers into the chilled morning air.
I hear the bleating.
The Sheep take no hesitation in letting me know. Their conversation drifts from the sheep pen around the other side of the cabin I sleep in, to join the wind which is still rapping on the window panes. “The dawn has risen. We’re hungry. Where are you?” they seem to say. I’ve since decided that sheep only bahhh when they are desirous of something to eat or drink, and when the feeder is late. They must be tuned into nature’s clock of resting and rising. I feel I am the only one who is left out.
“Out! Yes! I’m coming, I’m coming”; out into the sun spilt existence of nature, the trees connecting the grass to the sky, the radiance of freshness. I breathe it in deep and it makes me ecstatic. The animals must already know it. They’re mulling about, waiting to eat, not bothered by the early morning or the crispness winter adds to the day.
Down the gravel path, crunch crunch, after pulling on dusty old farm boots, hiding spider shaken out along with dried and crusting bugs and remnants of silken spider webs. Still breathing in the sleepy morning air I arrive at the herd of huddled white and brown wooly creatures. There is something about this simplistic beauty that begins to awaken my mind, that amazes and enthralls me. The sheep bare no apparent concern but eating and drinking and sleeping. They don’t worry about taxes or grades or being on time. I am not a sheep, but I realize in these moments that I could do without worrying. We all could– could use a bit of this simplicity.
Next to the sheep yard, I climb onto the back of the adjacent red pickup to throw off large and dense hay bales to these hungry mammals. That in itself is enough to make me acknowledge I am not of farm origin. I can pick up a hay bale, get it over the fence, and with a half toss let it plop down quite close to the fence’s edge. The hay bales thud to the frozen earth in a dull defiance. The sheep look unimpressed at my athletic ability. I’ll have to work out more. I challenge any thrower of pig skin to try a hay bale once. Superbowl here I come.
“Come inside”, the sheep seem to bleat still, the bales of hay satisfying only temporarily. “We know there’s grain in the barn. We know you know it.” I feel a bit like a jerk for taking so long to get outside, for waiting until the earth was devoid of shadows and the sun shown down bright in its cheeriness. The sheep were ready long before me. The sheep aren’t afraid of something as simple as the dark. Sheep may seem to spook easy, but it’s their defense. Get in the wrong place at the wrong time and you’ll know it. I heard the English sheepdog, Shaggs, went into the sheep pen once with friendly intentions. The sheep weren’t having any of it. He stays away now.
I have to admit I’m a bit apprehensive. Swinging the large gait over the sheep yard, over wet and sucking mud and sheep manure, I aim to keep the sheep out of the barn long enough to fill grain bins without getting stampeded by hungry waiting animals. The earth seems obstinate. I am moving too fast, too careless. It seems to grab for the moving gate, sucking in the soft rubber of my boots. One wrong step and I fall, the gate locking my foot to the ground, the muck. Stuck, and the sheep are getting antsy in their immediate hunger. I laugh, at the obstinate gate, at the humor of falling in the muck and mud and not minding, of the impending danger. Quickly, I move the persistent gate, persuading it to free my needed appendage so I can stand again. The sheep must understand, they wait, watching. I imagine they’re giggling amongst themselves at my measured clumsiness. They’re fat bellies jiggling as they pick apart the hay bales and my gate swinging style, their taunts of “green horn” resting slowly along on the calmed morning breeze.
I laugh at their taunts as my mind follows steadily, on the breeze. I am grateful for this opportunity, the knowledge that I can adapt to this different world. My mind follows the breeze out to other people hustling and bustling to get into their cars, get to their jobs, offices, appointments, driving, talking on their cell phones, the light turns green, then yellow, then red. I stop. Breathe in deep. See my former self as another scurrying ant among the thousands, trying to get here and there, somewhere. I walk slowly.
Older, larger, more obstinate sheep out of the way, I trot down to the younger sheep, mostly rams. Fewer in number and less intimidating, they look up. I feel elated as I am sure they do, glimpsing me walking, grain pale swinging in my right hand, glowing. I see Baku, the only familiar island amongst the small lake of sheep faces, the only sheep among the sheep family I have ever been formerly introduced to. He nudges my hand, unafraid, as I ponder the most advantageous way to cross over the fence without falling, with grain. The other sheep bolt as I step lightly over the wooden fence top, their clicking feet like so many bullets out of a gun trying to find the appropriate target, fast. I walk to the grain bins, talking to Baku in my new sheep tone, conversing like friends do, the nudging and the throat tones.
Able now to taste the air beside me, swirling around me in the moment, intrigued by the things I has never seen before. Standing in the midst of the hungry milling sheep I am filled with their wonder. Noticing the sheep’s coats, the way the wool covering cracks like dried skin as they bend their heads down to snuffle grain out of the metal enclosure, looking ancient and weathered. Baku’s coat, the whitest, forming dreadlocks of wool tangles mixed with manure and flecks of hay. The sheep take turns sucking water out of the circular water basin, washing the dried grain down their throats. One sheep, still eating, sounds out a shiver, the dried dung on his backside shaking like an excited baby’s rattle.
I am brought back to reality. Perfectly content to spend the rest of my day out there, carousing with the sheep, forgetting the daily doldrums of organized life; I have no desire to leave. I wish only to share my pure ecstasy with another, to say “there is another side of things, far beyond highly technological imagination, ready to give a new meaning to life. My whole being rejoices, as I linger in my restored connection to the earth that we take from everyday, most of us without properly greeting it with our attention and compassion.
The sheep return to their gay meandering. Baku stops long enough to emanate a “see you later.” He looks at me intently, almost knowingly. I run both hands down his snout, smoothing the tender soft wool of his chin and neck. He sniffs me as if to ask again who I am, and I rub his long ears, scratch them like I would a dog’s. I never expected that amount of intensity out of a sheep. People say sheep are dumb, I think the things people label as dumb hold surprises. They seem to have figured out before at least me the serenity of steady mornings. I tell Baku I’ll see him next time, seriously hoping I can change my profession, refrain from ever again rejoining the throngs of ants.
