Silent Signals

Taking my sheep to pasture each morning explodes the quiet tranquility across the landscape into noisy mayhem.

Gangs of lambs dash up and over creek beds, kicking and twisting their hind legs into the air, calling to one another with delight.

Ewes bleat and run in circles after the lambs, attempting to regain control.

My dog races to contain the flow, aiming it generally toward the gate a half mile away.

Even after the dog and I funnel the stream of sheep onto their breakfast buffet for the day, the noisy chaos travels back to us. We leave them to their fun and turn back to close the gate.

Eventually, the lambs tire, lay down for a nap and the ewes bury their heads in the grass.

The dog and I both breathe a deep sigh.

The silence signals that all is well.

I saddle my horse to ride through the cows.

The cows lounge, bellies full and calves nearby.

They all watch as my horse and I move slowly among them, no need to move away.

The only sounds come from my horse’s footsteps and singing birds.

I take a deep breath.

I feel the warm sun on my back.

My horse moves easily.

Again, the quiet signals that all is well.

That evening when I step into the barn for chores, noisy chaos greets me.

The hungry chickens, the orphan lambs and the livestock guard dogs loudly insist on supper.

A little grain scattered here and some milk poured into a bucket there – plus some dog bowl management to keep the canine hierarchy in place – quiets the ruckus.

By the time I leave, silence signals all is well once again.

I walk back to the house listening to birds sing about the day and realize that birds are the exception to the signal of silence.

Meadowlarks sing their good fortune.

Redwing blackbirds chirp their joy.

I feel myself relax.

Smile.

Slow my pace.

But not every chirp or song sends the message of peace.

One evening, I spot two fluffy killdeer chicks in the grass as I bring the sheep back to the corral for the night. The mother killdeer squawks and flounders in her attempts to draw my attention from the chicks.

Another day, curlews scream as they circle above my horse, diving close, herding me away from their nests hidden in the prairie grass.

My heart speeds. I tense and raise my reins, push my horse to move faster.

I feel their fear for their offspring.

Nobody could mistake their angry squawks for a song of peace and tranquility.

As I ride away, the curlews quit their frantic divebombing, landing silently in the distance.

All of this makes me think about people who live their entire lives listening to chaotic honks, yells and blasting music.

The angry squawks that demand attention focused here and then there and then over here. Right now.

I wonder if some people never ever get to hear the silence that signals all is well.

No wonder we all feel tense and afraid and angry all the time.

We have turned our world into the curlew’s world of protecting our own with every fearful tool we can conjure up. We rarely enter the meadowlark’s world of cheerful, relaxed wonder of what is right in front of us: Tranquility if we create it.

Ranching is all about growing food to feed people.

The best way to raise that food is to create wellbeing for my animals and myself.

By creating silence, I do my best work.

Maybe, somehow, a person eating the food I raise will hear the silence that signals all is well.