Cows are a part of my ordinary life. They are neighbors whom I chat with on my walks and who make me laugh when they all decide to come to the fence to hear my jokes. I pass them in fields everywhere as I drive about running errands or seeking the season’s roadside wildflowers. I love seeing them graze, nuzzle each other, and roam in that slow, steady fashion that reminds the rest of us to take it easy, to slow it down, and to seek out the good that is present.
Delilah and I have grown accustomed to walking alongside of fence rows when we take our big hikes in the countryside and watch the cattle watch us. Sometimes, Delilah will pull me to the fence and beg me to let her scurry under the wires so she can be her full beagle self and play tag. The cows will have none of it, of course, so I keep her close and we simply watch and chat from afar.
Recently, we were passing a familiar field full of cattle, but they were making sounds we had never heard before. Delilah stopped first and looked up at me. What was that noise? She stood there with great concern. Were they giving birth, I wondered? Were they hurt or chanting some strange mating call? I kept saying to Delilah, “What are they doing? What are they crying about?” We stood there a long time feeling such a sense of concern.
The next day, we were on a morning walk near a completely different field miles away from the other one, when we heard the same sound from cattle in that field. They seemed to be lowing a song of despair. It literally sounded like mourning. And that afternoon, a neighbor told me that the young had just been weaned from their mamas... and that the cows were, indeed, grieving. As I write these words before bed, I can still hear one lone cow crying in the darkness for the young she has lost.
What strikes me about all of this is that I’ve lived here in the valley for years, and I’ve never heard the cows bellow like this before. Have I not been paying attention? Or is it that all of the broken pieces of my own heart can finally hear their wailing? Or could it be that they cry not just for themselves, but for the humans who have faced so much loss in the past year, who are struggling to live peacefully in their own fields and who spend night and day tending what cannot be repaired or replaced?
We are not so different, the wild ones and the human ones... the cows who are mourning, my little dog who senses their loss, the vastness of sky, the solidity of earth and this tender human heart giving thanks for each breath. Let us not grow weary in loving. Let us bear one another’s sorrow. Let us fully show up for the beauty and the pain.
Delilah and I have grown accustomed to walking alongside of fence rows when we take our big hikes in the countryside and watch the cattle watch us. Sometimes, Delilah will pull me to the fence and beg me to let her scurry under the wires so she can be her full beagle self and play tag. The cows will have none of it, of course, so I keep her close and we simply watch and chat from afar.
Recently, we were passing a familiar field full of cattle, but they were making sounds we had never heard before. Delilah stopped first and looked up at me. What was that noise? She stood there with great concern. Were they giving birth, I wondered? Were they hurt or chanting some strange mating call? I kept saying to Delilah, “What are they doing? What are they crying about?” We stood there a long time feeling such a sense of concern.
The next day, we were on a morning walk near a completely different field miles away from the other one, when we heard the same sound from cattle in that field. They seemed to be lowing a song of despair. It literally sounded like mourning. And that afternoon, a neighbor told me that the young had just been weaned from their mamas... and that the cows were, indeed, grieving. As I write these words before bed, I can still hear one lone cow crying in the darkness for the young she has lost.
What strikes me about all of this is that I’ve lived here in the valley for years, and I’ve never heard the cows bellow like this before. Have I not been paying attention? Or is it that all of the broken pieces of my own heart can finally hear their wailing? Or could it be that they cry not just for themselves, but for the humans who have faced so much loss in the past year, who are struggling to live peacefully in their own fields and who spend night and day tending what cannot be repaired or replaced?
We are not so different, the wild ones and the human ones... the cows who are mourning, my little dog who senses their loss, the vastness of sky, the solidity of earth and this tender human heart giving thanks for each breath. Let us not grow weary in loving. Let us bear one another’s sorrow. Let us fully show up for the beauty and the pain.
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