Tempus Fugit

Sometimes a year can go by, and it's difficult to pull anything notable from it. Then there are those other years. Add to it the phenomenon of blending; was that this year or last year? Three years ago now? The passage of time is one of those realities that feels so much like a blessing some days and then a curse on others. Whoever acknowledged that time passes more quickly the older we get was spot on as well.

A year ago, magical Mavis joined the brood at the Salty Ewe. Down thirteen sheep and up a pup. She has more energy than the whole flock combined, save the lambs in their early months. Their old pasture has become her romping ground for three of the four seasons, with the beach becoming summer's running ground. She has brought Henry's puppy spirit back and also pulled me along through some of the year's most challenging times. Her eyes are the most human I have ever seen in a dog, and her intelligence feels like it matches my own some days. Other days, she reminds me she is a puppy and has a lot of growing to do.

Don't we all.

That's really what this year has been about. Old dogs learning new tricks. Dusting off the mirrors and looking deep into the reflections, seeing life with a perspective and purpose that makes me want to slow down time. Since that's not possible, finding ways to move through the days and weeks and years with the positivity and playful ebullience that Mavis has brought to the farmette is all I can do.

It'll do, it'll do.

Wreaths

One day last week, I was heading north on Route One and pulled over to watch the long caravan of Wreaths Across America inch its way south. It was quite something, really. I was overcome by emotion very unexpectedly and was glad to be sitting still - in a church parking lot. It just happened that way.
A few days later, I read a provocative post by a former student who suggested that we use the millions of dollars spent on wreaths to better care for our veterans. Housing, health care, job training.
While the pragmatism of such a thought might offend some people, admittedly he has a point. Wreaths are pretty but temporary.
Seasonal.

Yesterday, I made a huge wreath for the barn door. I gathered all kinds of greens from my property - mostly blue spruce, cedar, holly and boxwood. Threw in a few pinecones for good measure and may add some red berries. The simplicity of it is what makes it so pretty, and at four feet in diameter, it makes quite a statement on the simple little building.
As I worked on it, the calming smell of pine and cedar clung to me. The circular movement and layering of greens felt comforting as the low December sun sank. Working with my hands is something that brings rewards and pleasures that are so different from those that the day job brings, and the simplicity of it is enticing.

And, in keeping with the simple, circular nature of life, things will be shifting here at the Salty Ewe, and the dormancy of winter will be spent planning and preparing for the now sheepless farmette. Exciting times.

Friends

Henry and Mavis became friends immediately. I oddly had no reservations or concerns whatsoever about bringing her into the fold, so to speak; it never crossed my mind that Henry might not like her. He was gentle with her from the first moments and days, and as she has grown and become a more equal sparring partner, he has become less gentle; they play really rough sometimes.
It's something to watch. I have had to work hard at not intervening and just letting them work it out.
In the field, they run and spar for hours. Since we still have no snow in southern Maine, everything is swampy and wet - making for messy dogs.

Randall Jarrell's small but beautiful book The Animal Family has been a long time favorite of mine. I don't remember when I first read it - junior high maybe. I bought my own copy when I was in my twenties. Something about the story brought me great comfort and joy, and to this day it remains one of those books that can still bring me peace. The illustrations, so unlike his more popular images, are done masterfully by Maurice Sendak. Needless to say, his Max was another one of my childhood heroes.

Life's journey has brought (and taken) many good friends so far - both four legged and two; each one has added invaluable, beautiful lessons to my life, and when the rhythm of days allows enough time for deep contemplation and reflection, I am humbled by these experiences. Learning from friends and family, furry or not, continues to be one of the greatest joys of my life.  Tough lessons and all.

Running through the field getting muddy and wet is pretty much a great metaphor for living a life.

distance and perspective

Flying into Maine

It's odd that one could be so afraid of heights and still enjoy looking out of a plane's window. Similar to being prone to seasickness and yet loving the water and especially swimming in it.  Dichotomies that don't keep me up at night but rather intrigue me.
When the sheep first left, I couldn't go down to the barn - or the garden for that matter - for at least a week. Even though it had been my decision to let them go, it was deeply painful for a while. Then slowly, I began to accept the change and to settle in to the new rhythm of life here without them.
They were small changes but they felt really huge. And, pivotal somehow.

People still stop me in our little town and ask about them, share how much they miss them. I miss them, too, but they became too much for me; to care for 13 sheep and do it properly became an expensive venture. A fun, little hobby that began with three rescued Jacob sheep back in the day grew into a passion and commitment that lasted almost fifteen years. So, when the day finally came and a new home literally appeared on my doorstep, I knew it was the right time. Off they went, later that very same day - and my life changed. And, I adjusted.
One close neighbor, who I adore, gently reassured me that I would always be known as 'the sheep lady' by locals. An honor.
I'll take it.
With the perspective that time and distance allows, I continue to learn life's lessons from the sheep - long after they've left the farm.

Transformations

It's been a while. 

Just short of three years. Two weeks short just about.

Things have happened, and nothing at all

All at the same time.

It's weird. It's been a while.

The sheep left back in the Summer of 14. Or, was it the summer before that?

See, that's how it's been around here.

Losing track of days.

Years.

They left for much greener pastures, and more of them.

A barn fit for a King.

And, a staff to care for them.

They don't know me anymore when I visit with apples.

I visit less often now.

So the pasture became overgrown

It was beautiful in its own way, alive with birds and lightning bugs

Bees

And now it's become the romping ground for Henry and his new girl Mavis

I stand, quietly, and listen for the familiar sounds

They still echo and linger in the swails

I remember that first time I lost a lamb

Had no idea what I was doing, whether he was really gone

Running into the house with him cradled in my frozen arms

Trying to warm him back to life

When it hit me he was dead, I sat there shaking

This was a chapter in the raising sheep book I'd skipped over

Understanding that some things can never be brought back to life was not meant to be learned from books anyway.

waning days

Can days wane? These are the longest, darkest days and I'm counting down now to the 21st when things will slowly begin to turn around again. The reliable rhythm of the seasons again anchors the salty shepherd.

Henry blends into the night. He's still working out his puppy stuff, so sudden bursts of running in circles are not uncommon. Chasing after small animals that are out in the early morning is not uncommon, either, but I'm trying to break him of that. Instinct. It sounds crazy when it's written. But, the training of an eighty pound dog is required and hopefully his second year will bring more obedience and less puppy stubbornness.

This morning on our walk, he stayed close. We walked the perimeter of the field and the sky was just showing some signs of brightness, a lightening of the black. As I reached the top of the hill, a bright shooting star caught my eye and my breath. The stillness of the morning, the crispness of the air - and those unexpected moments that we're blessed enough to experience if awake. Literally and figuratively. As I saw the shooting star, a favorite line from an old song we sang rang in my mind: "stars are for those who lift their eyes." Wishing one and all a peaceful and healthy holiday season.

winter

beautiful baby lowy in her salty ewe lid

December's arrived with brutally cold temperatures and snow. The last few days of November were really cold as well, and even though we won't officially see winter for a few more weeks, it sure feels like it this weekend. But, as they say in Maine, if you don't like the weather then just wait a few minutes. Tomorrow, it's supposed to be in the fifties.

The ocean's been wild the past few days and I can hear it this morning in the house, with all the storm windows down. Granted, they're not the best windows, but still...to hear the waves and roar of the ocean from indoors says something. During Sandy, the dog and I walked down to the ocean and the sound of it was unlike anything I'd heard before. It scared Henry, and he was obviously upset and would not go down to the water; rather, he had his tail between his legs and wanted to head back - and did, with me behind him. It was a deep, deep hum almost. The waves were tremendous, as you'd expect; but, the deep, reverberant bass that the ocean made that day was unreal. An old neighbor of mine said she'd only heard it like that a few other times in her life - and reminded me that my hearing was a lot better than hers. The power of nature stops me sometimes. And, as a cold winter fog hangs in the field this morning, obscuring little wooly beasts that continue to forage through the thin layer of snow, I'm ready to hunker down for the winter.