Once the Charm’s Worn Off
I wrote for my Patreon recently about how I uniquely don’t pay any mind to our ram and ewe count at lambing. I’ve lambed out my and now our flock of ewes ranging in size from two to thirty head for (I can’t believe it) over ten years now. That record doesn’t produce the largest life-time lamb crop to pass through two hands, I admit. But add on extraneous experiences and stories shared between knowing shepherds and I think my resume stacks up. I’ve certainly stumbled through enough disasters alone, cold, in the dark to have learned the foundational lessons. What’s sunk in this latest round is my lost giddiness. When a ewe’s in early labor, I don’t hesitate to walk away for an hour or two until she deserves another look. I found myself forgetting even, leaving laboring ewes alone for even longer. Compared to my first lambing which Facebook memories recently reminded me of when I called two neighbors and the vet and documented every stage with a dozen photos, I’m facing a flatness that’s impractical to describe.
My fatalistic side wants to say it’s due simply to the amount of death we witness. We all know it’s more than that though. We anticipate amounts of everything, lambing in percentages. Percentage of ewes who settle at breeding, percent of lambs born per ewe exposed, per ewe who makes it to lambing, percent of acceptable mortality pre and post weaning, then the evolving data on lambs developing. Sounds cold compared to the average social media cuteness trap. A whole bunch of statistical values and anticipated losses don’t add up to the jubilation my lambing was a decade ago. How can I explain to you that my steadier emotions are not a subtraction from my heart? Actually, sounder logic and factual evaluations produce improved conditions for my flock. And still, lambing – shit, just living in rural spaces - exposes you to a lot of death. A lot more forms of life too but all that eventually stacks up to death. I listened to a podcast recently about a baker who witnessed a coyote killing a deer in a much closer setting than they had ever thought possible. They spoke of waking up to the realization that nature goes on with or without us and in real closer proximity to us than many realize. Even when we perceive ourselves as distanced from nature, in bright heated homes, we aren’t divorced from it entirely. We’re a part of it still.
My ewes would breed and lamb without me. Some ancestor of theirs’ existed without me and even the ones who began relying on humans still lived in a world so different from what our anthropomorphic jitters insist they need today. When I walk into a lambing now, I am less worked up, less anxious, less excited, and hovering less over my ewes than I once did. I can call that the reward for my years long commitment that I didn’t know I needed. It’s a closeness to the flock that exists in conjunction with a widening distance while we adjust to more extensive management. We’re creating a balance better for all of us with influences of our modern knowledge and their ancient instincts.
Considering the whole production of life and death in a day, lambing isn’t a showstopper. It’s a part of the everyday. I’ve talked myself out of writing this too many times in case it comes across as morose or inhospitable. The highest highs and lowest lows have leveled out to something that feels more sustainable. Like an enduring romance. Every single lamb I watch come into the world still lights up my day. And each one I bury is misery. But the whole process of it doesn’t agitate me anymore. I’m playing out my role in one natural cycle, with some manipulation and relevant aid. Lambing is my time to feel at ease in the world now that the charm’s worn off.