I’ve not seen a sheep act as a leader before, not in the way Zelda does. In the high winds today, she led the other four – these are not leaders, they are very much sheep – to a sheltered spot by the apple tree and she kept an eye on Red and I as we moved about the farm. It has been a few months since Zelda knocked me and Red down and busted out through the gate and led us on a merry chase a half-mile up the busy state highway in front of the farm. We were all lucky to get through that day, yet I don’t think Zelda would do that now. She is easy with Red, and easier with me and Maria. This is her farm now, and she is comfortable here. I don’t foresee any more breakouts. The fence is stronger.
When I shot Strut the rooster, a friend e-mailed me that she could no longer read my blog because I didn’t value life in the same way she did. She said she could only imagine that if Zelda acted up that I might get rid of her. I did not tell her that we got Zelda off of a farmer about to load her onto a truck headed for the market. Still, my friend (former friend, I guess) was right about one thing. If Zelda harmed Maria or me or anyone else, I would get her back on that truck. Human life comes first for me.
But we have worked hard and long with Zelda, and I have never trained a sheep before – and Red gets a huge chunk of the credit – and I am fascinated to see that it can be done. Zelda is quite strong-willed and we have all gotten our share of Zelda bruises chasing her around barns and pastures and roads. I sense that is over, though and while she will remain a strong and independent presence, she very much feels a part of the farm. We will keep working at, she is a remarkable animal.
I admire certain things about animals. They don’t squawk about the weather, and they don’t need weather alerts or names for storms. They accept the weather as a natural part of life, and today when the wind hit 50 mph gusts, the hens dug themselves into a small dip in the grass, closed their eyes and offered warmth and support for one another. This seemed a metaphor for me, another thing I learn from the animals I live with.
I woke up this morning uncertain, wondering about the new normalcy of living in a sea of bloody images, videos, sad and disturbing things. My words and photos seemed quite insignificant when weighed against all the pain and sorrow and fear sweeping through Boston this week. How do I find my ground while floating in this electronic sea which makes the world – always full of tragedies – seem such a sorrowful and hopeless place, images that drowns out love and happiness?
Is there a normalcy when I am thinking of lockdowns, searches, barren souls, slaughtered innocents, SWAT teams, bombs and guns? This is sadly a part of the human experience, and has always been, and the horrible truth is that it has often been much worse. This is of no comfort really, not Monday or today. Or is that not so? Is there any comfort in accepting that human beings are so flawed and imperfect and destructive and will maim and kill one another again and again?
Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, and reluctant to blog, I was alone – Maria was away this morning – and Lenore and Red were at the groomers. It seemed a bit strange to me to write about farms and animals and other things on this strange and disturbing morning. But then I remembered that is the point for me, to keep love and light alive for me – hopefully for you – and to celebrate it. That is, I think, the new role of the artist and the writer. There is plenty of darkness to be had elsewhere. So I went off in search of myself. You can’t find your ground in the news, you can only get away from it, in your own life and dreams.
I leashed up Frieda – she caught and killed a groundhog yesterday, I got the poorly bloody thing out of her mouth and walked the body across the road, scaring the wits out of Maria, who looked out the window and thought it was one of our animals I was carrying – and we went out on the highway for a walk with my dog and camera. I often am reminded how Frieda survived in the Adirondacks for years on her own.
I love walking with Frieda, she walks naturally and easily, she is a hunter, as always, scanning the woods and fields. She walks proudly and steadily. She is a formidable dog, full of dignity and purpose. She is smart, she stops when I stop to take a photo and waits for me. On the way back I stopped on the highway to take some images of the farm with my fisheye lens and then I sat in the house quietly for 10 minutes listening to the sweet sound of my own breathing. This is my ground, I thought, I did go find it. Our farm, my life. The place where Maria and I live with our animals and do our work.
Every time a sad image came into my head, I took a deep breath and blew it out through my mouth. And looked at my ground, gave thanks for it. Strange, it seems, yet it worked for me. I am getting back to normal.
And so I found myself, started moving to normalcy. I do not choose to dwell in sadness or regret, not in my own life surely. I have work to do on a book, things to write and photograph, dogs to pick up at the groomers, lunch to make. To find my ground, I have to stop and think about it and pull me back into myself, which is where my creative spark lives.
Frieda, who has always symbolized this dichotomy of the world to me – lying at my feet one second, slaughtering a groundhog the next, both quite natural – loved her walk and it settled me. This is the story, I thought, this is the way of the world. Some people hurt people, some people don’t, from the dawn of time.That is, I suppose, what makes being human so remarkable.
Unimaginable brutality and inhumanity one moment, extraordinary love, bravery, connection and empathy the next.
This is the drama of life, humans have always lived with it and perhaps will always live with it. God told the mystics in the Kabbalah that love is what endures, love was the point. That is what grounds me, even if we are not yet there, if I may never live to see it.
