Simple Grandeur of Lambing Season

The wait was over.

Each morning, I had checked the sheep corral, looking for the familiar signs.

Head down, nose out, ears perched.

The pose is as much of a protective crouch as a 150-pound ewe can make on spindly legs and cloven hooves.

The bright white lump curled nearby would be the object of her protection.

Yet, as the date approached, each morning the flock would calmly, contentedly gaze at me from their beds without concern. As I ambled through the pen, heavy bellies struggled to their feet and waddled to the pasture for breakfast.

Until the sun rose on several new lambs and changed the entire flock’s universe.

They changed my universe, too.

Lambing season is a crazy, peaceful, chaotic, bliss of contrasts.

The flock is our society, with varying needs and personalities.

Each new family requires individual care that competes with the needs of the larger flock.

I ping-pong between cradling a soft, helpless infant in my hand and circling the edges of the pasture to gather teenagers and mothers-in-waiting, imagining a Fitbit scrolling like a slot machine, bells clanging.

I’m out the door in the dark of the dawn and arrive back to the house for supper at the end of the light.

I would step out earlier to feel the world wake up except I don’t want to surprise a foraging grizzly bear.

As the sun rises, I hear birds chirping in celebration and, sometimes, ewes bleating in confusion.

Confused bleats are a bad sign.

Mammals don’t make noise unless something is wrong.

I scan the sheep lot for signs of trouble and, instead, I watch the sunrise of the new day shining through the cracks of ancient barn wood walls.

Two men who loved this land as much as I do, Alistair Graham and Steve Hutton, sit on my shoulders, reminding me of the glory of this land and this life.

I feel unworthy of carrying on the heritage of this place. Yet, somehow, some way, I manage to keep most things alive so they, too, see another sunrise and hear again the birds celebrating.

Young, first-time mothers circle their newborns frantically, torn between staying right here in this exact spot and following the flock to security.

In their eyes and their jerky, uncertain movements, I see the panic and fear of all mothers responsible for fragile, helpless life.

Humans pretend we know instinctively how to love and protect our offspring, especially as Mother’s Day approaches.

I despise the hypocrisy of Mother’s Day. I have never had any idea how to love and protect my offspring and I sincerely doubt that anyone else knows exactly what to do and how to do it, either.

We all just fake it until we make it.

At least, the young ewes are honest enough to admit their insecurities.

I watch newborn lambs wobble to their feet, their mothers following attentively.

Ewes follow their lambs for the first few days, then lambs are expected to follow their mothers, just as my kids learn to make decisions.

I enjoy the scent of fresh green grass while I watch the barn cats devour the delectable seasonal consequences of lambing season.

I chase a lamb up a steep hill, wishing I had exercised more last winter.

My fingers freeze in the dawn. Later, sweat drips down my back as I pitchfork pens clean.

I hope for rain to water my desperately thirsty grass, knowing rain chills, and then kills, lambs.

I compensate for lack of sleep by drinking enough coffee to keep me awake at night.

Nervous ewes need me to approach slowly and calmly.

I move slowly just as fast as I possibly can.