The past few months have served as a benchmark for me, a test perhaps, a measure of how fear works as a geography, as a space to cross, as a boundary. I have come to see fear as a devotion, like faith or love. Something of a choice.
It was my faith once, it governed most, if not all of my life. And then I lost faith in fear, and chose other devotions – love, encouragement, creativity. And the dogma of fear as devotion began to crumble, always there, always hovering, always fed by life and by the culture of fear in which we live. A kind woman e-mailed me from North Carolina and told me that she begins every morning by reading the New York Times, and it makes her angry and upset, and then she turns to my blog and often – not always – feels better, reading stories of Red, Simon, the old sheep.
I did not answer her, but I wondered why she reads the New York Times every morning, as I gave that up several years ago, and can honestly say I have not missed a single piece of news I need to know to live my life each day. It was hard to do, as it was difficult to give up the idea of modern medicine as the path to health for me. And hard not to be with people who talk about their health all day, or who warn me about my life, and the dangers of life, and the dangers of the world. I recognize them as the faithful followers of fear which is their devotion.
Fear stalks the world, our lives, our culture, hovers like the mist over a meadow or the spots on the moon. But it is also a choice, a faith, and I have found a new faith, and my life is so much better, brighter, more meaningful. When I watch Red work, and look at photos of him, I feel he is showing me how to concentrate on my true devotion, which is not fear but the absence of fear. He inspires me, he knows how to concentrate, to focus on his life, to avoid fear, the great distracter and destroyer of life. I am a believer, as is he, it is something we share, a bond we have formed.
I have talked with three very spiritual people, two spiritual counselors and both have suggested that the farm has not yet sold because I have not yet come to terms with leaving it. That I am leaving partly in fear – because I worry about affording it over time – and that I am rushing to live in another place, leaving the farm without acknowledging how much I love it, how much I will miss it, what great care I will take to make sure the people who buy it are good people. I was surprised to hear this, perhaps because there is truth in it. They also told me that by lowering the price, we are devaluing the farm, sending a signal that we do not cherish and appreciate it.
I am not a person who sees property as spiritual or sentient. I do not see farms as having a consciousness. I do not usually talk to buildings (I did talk to Abraham Lincoln’s statue in the LIncoln Memorial once). Yet there is something wrong, there is truth to what they say, and I am somewhat stricken by the idea that I have not acknowledged my great love and debt to this place, which nearly took my life away and then gave it back, richer and better. Or the idea that I would ever sell it to just anyone. Or am leaving out of fear. I talk to my precious farm all the time, on every walk, with so many photos, yet this curious idea did not seem strange to me. There is something to it. The farm is hanging on, I was told, because I have not squared my self or it with leaving. Maria was told the same thing yesterday and we have been talking about it. She accepts this, I am struggling with it.
I believe there is a devotion to fear. It is a faith for some people, and for me, an infection. It is always the most difficult to hear the things that have truth, that show you that you have not lived up to yourself, are not yet the human you wish to be. This was one of those things, a mirror with reflections I do not want to see.
This morning, Red and Maria and I went up the hill to close the gap in the fence that the old sheep broke out of last night, a last midnight hurrah for these aging rascals. Maria climbed down to move some rocks around and I couldn’t climb in there with here, so I stood above the farm and looked down on it and I spoke to it. I wrote a letter in my head, to this beautiful place, my soul, my spirit in every barn, blade of grass, fencepost, the soil awash in my blood and soul. If I ever really become a man, it was the farm that brought me there.
It was a beautiful morning, and the farm never looked more glorious, the red barns dignified, proud, the old farmhouse anchoring this beautiful space, the animals off in their corners grazing, a picture perfect dream of a place, beautiful, spotless, rich in color and history, and I asked the farm if what these spiritual counselors were saying was true. Have I forgotten something, missed something, blocked the passage from one place to another? Have I diminished you in some way? Am I running in fear, listening to all those crows cawing about this economy and the end of hope and promise?
And this is what I heard, this is what I felt the farm was saying to me: There is something wrong. You restored me, the house the barns. You brought animals back here after so many years. You built strong fences, tended the pastures. Look, look, there are sheep grazing in the meadow. Art shows, friends, encouragement of all kinds for all gifted people, they are here all the time. Just what you wanted. Just what I wanted. For a century I fell into disrepair and neglect, and no one could make it work, and you made it work. Maria in her studio. Donkeys in the pasture. Writing day and night. I was – am – a creative place for you. Once you came, you started writing and never stopped. You planted new trees, brought the gardens back to life, brought the farm back to life. Now, you are running off, and in a hurry. You keep lowering the price of the house, as if no one will want me. You are in love with another place, smitten like a child, and what about me? Where are you running, and why in such a hurry? I am confused, bewildered. Hurt. Why did you do all of this, bring me to this high point in my long existence, only to scramble away in fear? To fall in love with another place just like that. You must not believe that I have feelings. I don’t ask that you stay, I won’t keep you here. A lot of people have come to me, and more will find me, but if we have to part, give me what I deserve. Honor me and give me my due. Give me my dignity, and keep yours. Do not make me an awful thing you can’t get rid of, something you need to unload in a hurry. That is not right. That is not true. Do not move in fear and worry, but in pride and love. Does that make sense to you? And then my new owner will find me, and I will let you go. And we will part with honor and pride. This is what they are telling you. This is what I am telling you.
It was a message I needed to hear, and there was truth in it, those ideas struck right down to my heart. I did not cry, but I felt like it, my feeling for this magical farm washing over me, coming out from deep within, and it’s feeling for me coming back to me.
I love you, beautiful place, I said. I’ve said you are my real mother, and in so many ways that is the truth. The only thing in the world I love more is Maria. I came her to save you, and you saved me. I wrote my books here. Became a photographer. Found Maria. Ended a 35-year-marriage here. Encountered fear and terror here. Lived with Orson, Carol, Elvis, Pearl, Clementine, Izzy, Rose, so many other animals who shaped my life. Wrote so many books. Started my blog. Had lambs, adventures with Rose every day. Battled goats, got tractors, round bales for cows. I broke down in this farmhouse and pieced myself together here, lost my life and found it. I will never sell you to anyone who does not care for you and the beautiful magic in your soil and foundations.
I am not leaving you, we are not leaving you. We are going to something, something out of love, something out of life. Everything has its place, and we need our place, not my place. I am going to love, not fear, not out of fear. You will never leave my heart and soul. It was madness to come to you, the best thing I ever did in my life. It is time to go. I restored you, you restored me, an unbreakable bond over time. I value you and appreciate you, and somehow, as curious as it is, I suspect these people are right. I have not spoken to you, explained this to you, come to terms with you. I will begin working on that, every day. I am grateful for every inch of you.
So I guess we need to talk, my farm. Perhaps every day for awhile. It is not the real estate market that is keeping this going, that is just their story of the world. It is not the economy. I do get this message. I do hear it.
Thanks for the many wonderful and informative messages from those of you who have experience with blind animals and people also, and who persuaded me that Red is almost certainly aware of Rocky’s blindness and is acting protectively around him. It also seems clear to me that Rocky is very aware of Red, and feels at ease – is safe the right word? – with him around. The messages were very affecting and I appreciated them.
I think we are, in fact, seeing something instinctive and beautiful.
We got a call at midnight from my neighbor Adam who said there a bunch of sheep up the hill in his front yard, munching on his grass. I’ve never had animals break out of a fence in my whole time on the farm and Maria and I grabbed Red, got dressed and rushed up the hill. There were the old sheep, in a Last Hurrah perhaps, grazing at the top of the hill in the dark. I got Red out of the far and we devised a plan for surrounding them and bringing them into the big pasture, but before we could move, they were gone. Adam saw them rushing back under a part of the fence that was intact, but the dirt under part of the fence had eroded and there was enough space for sheep to crawl in and out. The old geezers got to some good grass.
Red got in there, dug them out and brought them back to the lower pasture in the dark. We were much impressed. We closed the gate and locked them in there. This morning, Maria and I went up to put rocks under the fence and block it, and the old sheep were up there waiting for us, about to break through again. Then we saw the Maria’s three black sheep were limping, one discharging from the nose. We got out the antibiotics, got Red out there again and got them into the barn, gave them some shots. It was too dark to get a video of the old sheep breakout, but I got some shots of Red rounding them up this morning, and also of his skill at getting Maria’s sheep into the barn and holding them in place. Maria has evolved quite a bit in the past year or so, and she is a born farmer, at home wielding a needle, rebuilding stone fences, wrestling with sheep.
Red continues to astound us with his energy, intuitive skill and grasp of tasks. We sure appreciated him last night and this morning. Come and see.
I write often about mercy, compassion and animals, but sometimes I think you can’t write often enough. I am putting up emotional photographs of the old sheep, and of course and not surprisingly this has triggered an outpouring of concern, criticism and pity for them, especially on my Facebook page, where I permit comments. Why aren’t Maria and I keeping them? Why is the farmer sending most of them to slaughter in the fall? Don’t they deserve to live out their natural lives there, or here? Of course Jon and Maria will take them, one poster said. Can you imagine them letting them die? I guess this was supposed to be a compliment. It made me cringe. Is this the message I am putting out?
Another jeered that since I don’t pity them or grieve them, I wouldn’t care if they die. She added that the farmer should keep them alive.
When I replied that perhaps she would like to take the sheep, put up fencing, pay the vet bills and for hay, grain, water, shearing and farrier for years, she answered that I was petty and that she had a terraced garden and didn’t like the smell of farm animals. That’s a parable for the ages. I left it up so everyone could see it, and she happily vowed to “unfriend” me. A good move, this is not the place for her.
We live in a curious world of inverted notions of mercy. The gap between people who live with farm animals and people who don’t is almost too vast to cross. In our culture one of the most extreme punishments is life imprisonment, next to the death penalty our most severe. Yet confining dogs to unnatural lives in crates for their natural lives in “no-kill” shelters is considered merciful, a mark of our humanity. Because we took in Simon and care for Rocky, then there must be no limit to the animals we can care for and feed. What is the difference between this and hoarding, I wonder.
Almost every animal – Rocky, Simon, the Old Sheep, even Red – becomes an object of pity, an opportunity for rescue, a measure of how piteous and dependent they are, how much they suffer, how good and wonderful we humans are who rescue and care for them. We must make a perfect world them, offer them a paradise without death or suffering.Thus people tell me every day there is only one way to acquire an animal to live with – rescue it.
As you know I have a number of animals who were “rescued.” Simon, Rocky, Frieda, and Izzy before them. Animals I love.
But that is only one dimension of my life with animals, not the primary one. These other ideas of mercy and compassion are not my notions or beliefs and you are all entitled to honesty from me. I have no pity for the old sheep as they are not piteous and they have lived far longer and better than most of the sheep on the earth. They are not furbabies or pets. No farmer or writer for that matter, can afford to keep large numbers of animals for years because it’s nice. No farmer should. Animals do not “deserve” to be kept alive by any means at all costs because it makes humans feel better about themselves. We have choices to make, decisions, costs to consider, lives to have that are in balance and include perspective.
I respect animals by permitting them to be animals, not objects to be exploited for my emotional gratification. They have the right to live out their natural lives. Mary Shelley had it right. Just because we can do things doesn’t mean that we should. They are not dependent and piteous creatures. They are entitled to be themselves, not reflections of us.
I would not keep the old sheep here so that they can replicate the horrors of the human aging process – being warehoused in a rural nursing home for years while they die slowly and accrue horrific medical problems and costs. Not the choice for me, not my choice for them. I do not pity them, but that does not mean I don’t care for them. I will not grieve for them, but that does not mean I don’t feel for them. I am grateful to the farmer for giving me and them the experience of being with them and photographing them for a last summer.
I admire him. He is forever in debt, has four jobs, two kids in college, works from 4 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day of the week. And still he took the trouble to think of them and bring them here for this summer. I pity the animals who don’t get a farmer like that. I would not be the one to tell him he deserves to keep 25 aging sheep alive for years because it makes somebody with a terraced garden feel good with her morning coffee.
