Do You See What I See?
The Annunciation to the Shepherds, a Flemish illumination circa 1480
Earlier this week I turned the sheep out on to the lower hay field. It’s the only area where both hay is grown and animals graze, about two acres in the center of a moderate slope draining into a riparian strip along a year-round run. Despite entering the paddock from the south gate, in the evening the flock always congregates at the north gate at the top of the hill.
“Maybe this year will be different,” I absently told myself as I scattered alfalfa pellets in the feed bunks back at the barn. Normally that sound would have everyone racing toward me, but not tonight. “Let’s see if they are smart enough to get back to the barn on their own.”
Clean, fed, and nestled in beside the fireplace with a new book while listening to my favorite jazz station, the host caught my attention with a cultural tidbit about While Shepherds Watched, a traditional Christmas carol. Shame on me. I wasn’t watching, but instead sipping tea in warmth and comfort. “I wonder if the sheep came back up the hill to the barn for the night?”
More Christmas music with carols about shepherds. I contemplated, “Do I really want to suit back up?” And then the Great Pyrenees started barking. Not the I’m a big dog, stay away bark, but an insistent Hey, get out here, something is wrong bark. So it was back into coveralls, boots, and warm hat with a headlamp added as it was now close to midnight. Calculating four steps of what if, I chose the insulated gear in case I had to trek down over the hill and walk the sheep back up to the barn.
As I suspected, there wasn’t a sheep to be seen in the open barn where they normally bed down at night. The alfalfa pellets lay uneaten. Time to take a walk.
Sheep has become a derogatory term to denote those being docile, foolish, or easily led. This is a fallacy. Real sheep are anything but those attributes. I know what those sheep were thinking when t hey gathered at the north gate and refused to follow me down over the hill to the gate at the far end of the farm and back up the hill for some measly pellets earlier in the day. No, they wanted me to take the short cut like I tried last year when I opened the north gate believing they would run to the barn as usual. Instead they made a beeline to the hay barn where the chicken feed is also stored. Sheep are not docile and will hit a 200-pound tote like a linebacker knocking it over and spawning a feeding frenzy shoving match worthy of any 1990’s mosh pit. All bets are off on leading them anywhere until every last speck of chicken feed has been licked up.
Sure enough as I crested the top of the hill my headlamp caught the eyes of the flock lighting them up like glowing dots in the distance patiently waiting for me at the north gate. I was glad I opted for the cold weather gear and I again began to walk down over the hill. “I bet they’ll follow me now,” I thought as I reach into my pockets loaded with treats. It was then that I saw the first meteor as it streaked across the sky leaving a violet tail. The Geminids were peaking in a few hours, but the show was well underway.
Much to the sheep’s surprise I ventured out on to a rise in the hayfield away from either gate. Checking the ground for any recent deposits I found a clean spot and plunked down in the damp grass where frost was beginning to form making each blade sparkle as if expertly bedazzled. My actions did not go unnoticed.
The first ones to investigate were the former bottle babies, the tame ones who know there are usually treats in my pockets. There’s Moose and Salty from sleep-away camp and Purl who came to market as a giant bumblebee one Halloween. Big Dipper is the pushiest one of all so she has to stay home for fear of her swiping a child’s snack or bullying anyone she deems worthy of her attention. They may not all have names, but I know each and every one of them, who their parents are, how old they are, and where they fall in the hierarchy of the flock. More than nutrition, I toss pellets every evening to take an inventory and assessment. Taking a walk for one missing animal is much worse than having to go lead the entire lot of them back up the hill. One sheep off by themselves never ends well.
Goat yoga might be a recent trend, but I learned a long time ago to lock up the bottle babies when they are in the house or they’ll leave presents for me on the mat during savasana. Extra points if it ends up on my clothing or in my hair. No, I prefer meadow meditation and tonight it was sheep stargazing. They had surrounded me, some nervously grazing, others ambling about trying to decide if they wanted to return to the north gate or stick around where most of the flock were simple standing in the glow of night waiting on my queue for what to do next. Their footsteps and breathing became the background to a sky streaked by rock-sized pieces of an asteroid hitting Earth’s atmosphere sixty miles above. Another Christmas carol filled my mind. Shepherds, why this jubilee? Why these songs of happy cheer? What great brightness did you see? What glad tiding did you hear?
The Great Pyrenees figured out where I’d gotten to and decided to show up for a proper pile-on. My peaceful contemplation of the universe and being a shepherd out with the flock staring up at the night sky during a meteor shower was over. Time to walk back up the hill. This time they followed.