The knock came in two soft, hesitant raps, like a polite cough.
I rise from the sofa, silently thankful to be wearing proper pants at the moment, and fling open our hot-pink painted front door to find the neighbor standing ankle-deep in cats.
“Sorry,” I watch him gently shake a black-and-white spotted usurper off his boot, “The kittens lurking around our door are waiting to play with the kids. Want a cat?” I offer weakly.
“Your sheep escaped into my yard.”
The neighbor is kind enough to traipse back with me to his pasture and we find three of my lambs lounging serenely in the lush grass. Their legs are folded pertly underneath making their long, spiraling wool drape languidly on each side like the perfect little rugs that they are. The lambs chew with this devil-may-care look in their eye that only sheep-owners can interpret. And we do so while imagining barbecue.
The escape is actually a good problem: the sheep have stripped the leaves off and trampled the 15 feet tall blackberry mountains that line the spotty fence, granting them access to spots that we couldn’t initially repair when we got here. While our herd is unlikely to completely kill off the blackberries without the help of a tractor, their work has definitely made it easier to manage these carnivorous plants.
The wisps of wool are dead giveaways those wooly vikings have been raiding the countryside.
I fumble with some lame soccer analogy to give the neighbor a sense of our plan to herd the sheep back through the hole in the fence. He lunges at the now alert lambs and sends them scattering in different directions. I struggle to convey the level of finesse this task requires. All my analogies reveal how psychotically desperate I have been while trying to convince the sheep they need to go somewhere:
“Imagine that the 20 foot radius around you is a force field,” or
“Lean so you’re making the suggestion of moving toward them without actually doing it.” or worst of all,
“Pretend you’re dancing with them.”
The neighbor is a quick study, and without revealing my full arsenal of embarrassing metaphors we’ve pressured the sheep back through the hole.
They escape two more times before a permanent fix is made to the fence. (One of my attempts included three old boards, an oven rack, two pieces of baling twine and an old cement garden sculpture shaped like a Pharaoh head.)
This vignette feels like a fitting summary of my November: getting things done requires coaxing, strategy, and finesse. Convincing Ozzie to write his letters, squeezing in time to finish article just before Asa wakes up, finagling the budget to include a fun activity for Justin’s birthday —it’s all like pressuring several wily sheep back through a tiny hole in the fence.
I don’t know the little stories you tell yourself to coax your sleepy body out of warm bed on a chilly November morning, or the little pep talk that gets you to the gym. Who knows what silly mental metaphors work for you when it comes to getting your work finished or tweaking the grocery budget or orchestrating several loads of laundry. The fact is even if not everything is getting done smoothly, it’s getting done and that’s the most important bit.
You’re doing brilliantly. And if your circumstances are asking you to step up your game, maybe ask someone who’s been at it longer to share their weird mental tricks and ways of seeing it.
May November, and all of its busy loose ends find order in a restorative rhythm of work and rest for you. May you find humor in all things, even when your clever efforts don't pay off right away. You’ve got this.