BOVINE EPIPHANY #1
On a meditation retreat, a dozen of us occupied a cabin built in the middle of a grazing pasture. On the first morning, I strolled down a gravel driveway, contemplating the nature of reality.
A lone cow stood with its ankles in a pond, glaring menacingly at me, while half a dozen others lay snoozing under a shade tree. Lying down? It made no sense, because I had it on good authority that cows slept standing up.A lone cow stood with its ankles in a pond, glaring menacingly at me, while half a dozen others lay snoozing under a shade tree. Lying down? It made no sense, because I had it on good authority that cows slept standing up.
Back when I worked in admissions for the University of Kansas, I recruited in small towns. Rural high schoolers learned about college, and I learned about cow tipping.
“Really?” I asked. “How do you tip over a cow?”
“Well, ma’am, they’re off balance when they sleep.” (Farm kids were very polite.) “So we do it at night.” (Also very bright.) “But the owners hate it.” (Also mischievous. I liked that.)
As a city girl, I couldn’t quite picture how it worked, but since I didn’t need to put the information to use, it lay dormant for about twenty years.
On the second morning of retreat, the other cows had joined the loner at the pond. I kicked at stones while questioning the existence of God. Uh-oh. A rock landed too close to the herd. They turned in my direction. Do cows bite?
On the last day, I headed down the drive, pondering the finality of death. A cow lumbered closer. I stopped. He stopped. I backed away. He took anther step in my direction. Lordy, he was bigger than a Volkswagen. And far more sturdy. There was no way in hell you could tip that thing over.
Retreats. Where existential mysteries are resolved.
BOVINE EPIPHANY #2
Every day while on retreat, I left the cabin for a walk. A dozen cows were grazing in the pasture near the gravel drive. Hiking toward them, I hesitated, leery of anything wearing four legs and a tail. A calf looked up at me, then ambled closer to its mother. (My apologies to the cows for being presumptuous about their relationship.) The little one was cute, until she was obscured by her bigger, meaner mom.
I stopped. My knees quivered.
Mama cow squared herself to the drive, ready to attack. Further ahead, cows were lying close enough to swat me with their tails.
My knees got very fluttery, in addition to the quivering.
Other mooing beasts had closed in from behind. They would definitely breathe on me.
My knees were buckling, in addition to the fluttering and quivering. I prepared to die from bovine cooties.
Bored with me, the monsters wandered off. And when they left, the activity in my joints settled down.
Since it happened on retreat, I was grateful for such a close-up look at fear. How it rose and fell and passed away. How judgments piled on top of anxiety will spiral you into panic. Maybe I’ll take this as a starting point, to accept my whole self once and for all. Yes, from now on, a new mantra: compassion for my anxiety.
As we were packing up at the close of our retreat, a woman said, “I saw a bobcat yesterday.”
What?
Note to my knees: Are you nuts? You wasted my scaries on cows? There were bobcats out there.
SHOW PIES
At the state fair, hubby and I slouched on a park bench near a livestock barn.
A teenaged girl led a brushed-and-fluffed cow past us, into the barn. Tail raised, the best-of-show hopeful eased out four perfectly formed mounds onto the sidewalk.
We snickered.
We waited.
We watched.
A pair of light-up tennies skipped closer, avoiding danger with a twisting leap. Next, a stroller and Birkenstocks maneuvered safely through the hazard by executing a series of hairpin turns. Pink clogs approached.
We leaned forward.
Closer.
We held our breath.
Closer.
Bull’s-eye. Maximum squish. The clogs left a cookie cutter imprint.
Pink-clogged teenager screamed. She hopped around one-legged like she’d stepped on hot coals. “Shit-shit-shit.” She smeared the insult into the grass. “Eew.”
Her companions howled their derision all the way into the barn.
Those who passed by afterward might have wondered why the gray-haired couple on the bench were clutching their stomachs, with tears streaming down their faces.
On a meditation retreat, a dozen of us occupied a cabin built in the middle of a grazing pasture. On the first morning, I strolled down a gravel driveway, contemplating the nature of reality.
A lone cow stood with its ankles in a pond, glaring menacingly at me, while half a dozen others lay snoozing under a shade tree. Lying down? It made no sense, because I had it on good authority that cows slept standing up.A lone cow stood with its ankles in a pond, glaring menacingly at me, while half a dozen others lay snoozing under a shade tree. Lying down? It made no sense, because I had it on good authority that cows slept standing up.
Back when I worked in admissions for the University of Kansas, I recruited in small towns. Rural high schoolers learned about college, and I learned about cow tipping.
“Really?” I asked. “How do you tip over a cow?”
“Well, ma’am, they’re off balance when they sleep.” (Farm kids were very polite.) “So we do it at night.” (Also very bright.) “But the owners hate it.” (Also mischievous. I liked that.)
As a city girl, I couldn’t quite picture how it worked, but since I didn’t need to put the information to use, it lay dormant for about twenty years.
On the second morning of retreat, the other cows had joined the loner at the pond. I kicked at stones while questioning the existence of God. Uh-oh. A rock landed too close to the herd. They turned in my direction. Do cows bite?
On the last day, I headed down the drive, pondering the finality of death. A cow lumbered closer. I stopped. He stopped. I backed away. He took anther step in my direction. Lordy, he was bigger than a Volkswagen. And far more sturdy. There was no way in hell you could tip that thing over.
Retreats. Where existential mysteries are resolved.
BOVINE EPIPHANY #2
Every day while on retreat, I left the cabin for a walk. A dozen cows were grazing in the pasture near the gravel drive. Hiking toward them, I hesitated, leery of anything wearing four legs and a tail. A calf looked up at me, then ambled closer to its mother. (My apologies to the cows for being presumptuous about their relationship.) The little one was cute, until she was obscured by her bigger, meaner mom.
I stopped. My knees quivered.
Mama cow squared herself to the drive, ready to attack. Further ahead, cows were lying close enough to swat me with their tails.
My knees got very fluttery, in addition to the quivering.
Other mooing beasts had closed in from behind. They would definitely breathe on me.
My knees were buckling, in addition to the fluttering and quivering. I prepared to die from bovine cooties.
Bored with me, the monsters wandered off. And when they left, the activity in my joints settled down.
Since it happened on retreat, I was grateful for such a close-up look at fear. How it rose and fell and passed away. How judgments piled on top of anxiety will spiral you into panic. Maybe I’ll take this as a starting point, to accept my whole self once and for all. Yes, from now on, a new mantra: compassion for my anxiety.
As we were packing up at the close of our retreat, a woman said, “I saw a bobcat yesterday.”
What?
Note to my knees: Are you nuts? You wasted my scaries on cows? There were bobcats out there.
SHOW PIES
At the state fair, hubby and I slouched on a park bench near a livestock barn.
A teenaged girl led a brushed-and-fluffed cow past us, into the barn. Tail raised, the best-of-show hopeful eased out four perfectly formed mounds onto the sidewalk.
We snickered.
We waited.
We watched.
A pair of light-up tennies skipped closer, avoiding danger with a twisting leap. Next, a stroller and Birkenstocks maneuvered safely through the hazard by executing a series of hairpin turns. Pink clogs approached.
We leaned forward.
Closer.
We held our breath.
Closer.
Bull’s-eye. Maximum squish. The clogs left a cookie cutter imprint.
Pink-clogged teenager screamed. She hopped around one-legged like she’d stepped on hot coals. “Shit-shit-shit.” She smeared the insult into the grass. “Eew.”
Her companions howled their derision all the way into the barn.
Those who passed by afterward might have wondered why the gray-haired couple on the bench were clutching their stomachs, with tears streaming down their faces.
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