I met a sheep

Can we call her Lily? Let's call her Lily.

Am I allowed to touch the sheep? I thought.

I’ve been at Treshnish (a Scottish cottage on the Isle of Mull) for almost a month now, and the sheep have become my friends. We chat. We sing. Sometimes they scurry away when I walk by. Other times they just stand there looking at me. You’re weird, lady.

On Thursday I woke up around 10am.

Groggy. Still recovering from the early part of the week—a cluster of days and blur of hours I’m not ready to share. Maybe I don’t have to; maybe this repeat of an unraveling is unnecessary for us to process here. Because maybe you know me well enough by now that what happened early this week does not need to be said.

I’m here. Going on. Onward.

After pulling some tarot cards, I looked out my window and saw an eagle. Or a seagull. I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it was floating effortlessly in place. Ok Universe, is this a sign?

Begrudgingly, I put on my jacket and $20 “waterproof” boots from H&M and went outside.

Guess I’m following signs today.

I walked the muddy path outside my cottage towards the place the eagle/seagull had been hovering, but it was gone. Damn.

“Okay, universe,” I sighed into the frigid Scottish winter wind.

“I'm looking for a sign. I'm looking for a sign that it’s safe for me to keep walking on the path I’ve chosen for myself. That it's safe for me to keep being a writer. That something good is coming my way, and that all the effort I put in will have rewards. That even though I'm not seeing much success financially now, it doesn't mean it's not coming. That I shouldn't give up. Please show me something. Because otherwise I'm just some stupid woman talking to herself in a field in Scotland.”

God, this is ridiculous.

I found my way down the track to the open field where my sheep friends hang.

As they always do when I walk through their little gatherings, the sheep started to scatter and clump into their respective groups and stare at me. Like highschoolers flocking to their lunchroom tables as the new kid comes in. Sorry, seat taken. But we’re still gonna stare, new kid.

This time, one sheep didn't move. She stood about ten yards in front of me, motionless.

Stare-off? I thought. Suddenly, she started to move towards me. Wait, what are you doing my furry friend? I kept walking a few more feet and then I stopped. If the sheep really was walking towards me, I wanted to be a safe place for her to walk to. I wanted to show her I wasn’t looking for anything, and that if she wanted to come my way, that would be alright.

I didn't move until she stopped at my feet, face inches from my knees. She wiggled her nose back and forth. As if to say, “go on pet me,” or “put your hand out! Do you have food?”

I started to cry. I don’t know why, but this sheep approaching me so willingly felt like an acknowledgment. An acknowledgment of my existence. An acknowledgment of my anger. An acknowledgment of my sometimes-wondering about animals being superheroes and so much smarter than we are.

Is this my sign? A sheep?

I remembered that my first name in Hebrew means sheep.

I always thought that was kind of dull. Weak, even. I wanted my name to mean something glamorous or powerful. Who wants their name to mean some fuzzy animal that just poops all day long?

If this is my sign, I better find out what the significance of sheep are.

I reached my hand out and then instantly regretted it. Do sheep have sharp teeth? Are they prone to biting? Am I even allowed to do this? I reminded myself that children don’t ask these questions in the company of sheep. Am I afraid of the sheep, or of breaking rules I don’t even know exist?

Keeping my hand stretched out, I waited for the sheep to approach me further. Consent is key, I thought. Rachel, this is a sheep, I thought again. Woman, your inner monologue is bizarre. Before I could finish the play inside my head, the sheep had started to nuzzle my palm with her nose.

I traced my hand along the side of the sheep's body, touching her wooly coat and feeling the same rough texture I’ve felt in blankets and sweaters. This time with a different sense of gratitude.

Eventually, I knelt down to meet the sheep's eye level, keeping my hand on her side. She moved even closer to me and rested her chin on my knee. I cried again.

Her chin on my lap, my hand on her side, and the raging Scottish sea behind us.

She tilted her head up and looked at me. It looked like galaxies lived inside her eyes. Is this a reflection of the sea behind us? Or is the whole world in your eyes?

We sat like this for what felt like an hour. Her head in my lap, my hand on her side. Me wondering what's the significance of this all? Sometimes crying intermittently. Sometimes directly asking the sheep, “what is it you want me to know? What is it you're trying to tell me?”

Of course the sheep didn't reply, which I'll admit was not only frustrating but expected.

After a long time had passed, I thought, I want to remember this moment. I pulled my phone out very slowly and gently and held it up and asked her,

“Can I take your photo?”

The sheep didn't move. I took that as a sign that it was either okay, or the sheep had no fucking clue what a cell phone was. But I kind of thought she knew. I kind of think sheeps are smarter than we give them credit for. I kind of think all animals are.

Slowly, I took a photo. The sheep didn't move away or cower. She seemed to know exactly what pose to strike and what angle to to face so that her eyes were directly reflected in my lens. So that her nuzzle was even more gentle and warm. As if she was trying to say to me, “I want you to remember this, too.”

I put my phone away and said thank you. We sat there for a little while longer, her grazing her nose into my forehead, me slowly and gently embracing her in what felt like a little sheep hug.

After a time I stood up, and she walked away without looking back. She returned to eating grass and didn’t lift her head again. I stood there slightly baffled, wanting this interaction to mean something, also not wanting to be the asshole that makes meaning from talking to a sheep.

As I walked back up to my cottage, I thought about my name.

I thought about how strange it was that all this time I knew my Hebrew name meant “sheep” but never bothered to dive into the significance.

Cold, confused, and still crying, I peeled open my laptop back at the cottage and typed, “significance of sheep.”

Softness. Community. Sacrifice for the greater good. I kept reading. “Sheep are known to walk the sides of the steepest mountains, traversing narrow trails no other animal or man dare to take.”

Oh, I see.

Sheep will always find a way.

me and Lily <3