The Sheep Who Refused to Be Rushed

I have a sheep named Buttercup.

Actually...

If Buttercup heard me say she was my sheep, she'd probably have a few thoughts about that.

She seems to believe I'm her human.

Buttercup came to live on my farm after the woman who bottle-raised her and her sister, Hope, could no longer care for them.

She was the first sheep I'd ever known.

I'll admit...

I didn't know what to expect.

Sweet?

Yes.

Gentle?

Absolutely.

Loud?

Oh my goodness...

No one prepared me for the volume of a determined sheep.

When Buttercup wants your attention, the entire farm knows it.

BAAAAAAA!

She also has another strategy.

She loves scratches under her chin.

If I find exactly the right spot, her tail starts wagging so fast it makes me laugh every single time.

But here's the thing...

Buttercup decides when enough scratches are enough.

Not me.

If I stop too soon...

WHACK.

She slaps my leg with her hoof.

Not hard enough to hurt.

Just hard enough to say,

"Excuse me...I wasn't finished."

If I ignore her...

Another slap.

Then...

BAAAAAAA!

She's remarkably persistent.

And if I'm being honest...

I haven't always appreciated her timing.

Life on a farm is busy.

There are fences to fix.

Water troughs to fill.

Forty animals waiting for breakfast.

Weeds to pull.

Emails to answer.

It's easy to rush through the pasture already thinking about the next task.

Buttercup has absolutely no interest in my schedule.

She isn't asking for much.

Just a few moments.

A scratch under her chin.

My full attention.

Over the years, I've noticed something.

The days I rush past Buttercup are rarely my best days.

The days I stop...

Scratch her chin.

Watch her little tail wag.

Smile at her ridiculous persistence...

Those days somehow feel different.

Nothing on my to-do list changes.

But I do.

What Buttercup Taught Me

For a long time, I thought Buttercup wanted scratches.

And, to be fair...

Buttercup definitely wants scratches.

Let's not make her more spiritually evolved than she is.

But somewhere along the way, I realized there was something else happening in those little moments between us.

She was making me stop.

Not for an hour.

Not for a meditation.

Not because I'd finished everything on my list and finally earned the right to rest.

Right in the middle of whatever I thought was so important.

Buttercup wanted me there.

I've spent much of my life moving quickly.

There was always something else to accomplish.

Something to fix.

Someone who needed me.

Another thing I could squeeze into the day.

And I became very good at living that way.

So good, in fact, that I didn't always notice what I was rushing past.

Buttercup notices.

She doesn't care what I accomplished yesterday.

She isn't impressed by how many things I can get done before lunch.

And she has never once asked to see my to-do list.

Her measurement system is considerably simpler:

Are you here?

Are you paying attention?

And why exactly did you stop scratching my chin?

WHACK.

Message received.

What I love about Buttercup is that she never seems offended when I forget.

She doesn't hold a grudge when I'm too busy.

She doesn't decide that because I rushed past her yesterday, she's going to withhold her love today.

She simply asks again.

Another opportunity.

Another invitation.

BAAAAAAA!

There's something incredibly forgiving about that.

And maybe that's part of what animals teach us about presence.

We don't have to become perfectly present people.

We don't have to slow down every minute of every day.

We simply have to notice when life gives us another opportunity to come back.

Buttercup keeps giving me those opportunities.

And I've begun to understand that stopping for her doesn't take something away from my day.

It gives something back to it.

The fences will still need fixing.

The troughs will still need filling.

The emails will still be there.

But for a few moments, I'm not thinking about any of them.

I'm standing beside a sheep.

My hand is under her chin.

Her tail is wagging ridiculously fast.

And we're both completely there.

Maybe that's what I've spent so many years searching for in much more complicated ways.

Presence doesn't always arrive in silence.

Sometimes it arrives very loudly.

BAAAAAAA!

You May Be Wondering...

Why do animals seem to ask for our attention at the busiest times?

I've wondered that myself.

I don't know that Buttercup is intentionally thinking, Leia seems overly productive today. I should intervene.

Although with Buttercup, I wouldn't rule it out.

I think the simpler answer is that animals aren't living according to our schedules.

They're experiencing what's happening now.

And when they ask us to connect with them, we have a choice.

Sometimes we genuinely can't stop.

That's life.

But sometimes we can.

We can put down what we're carrying.

Take our minds off what's next.

Scratch a chin.

Rub an ear.

Sit beside a beloved animal.

And simply be there.

I've spent a lot of my life believing there would eventually be time for those moments once everything else was done.

Buttercup has taught me otherwise.

The moments are the life.

Everything else will still be waiting.

And if I happen to forget?

Don't worry.

Buttercup will remind me.

Loudly.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.