My Friend Sends Me Sheep

A poem about how we coped with COVID

Five years ago we took our first trip to England. We chose Somerset as our destination, in part because we had friendly acquaintances who had recently relocated to that part of the country who were a terrific source of travel advice. We found what appeared to be an idyllic holiday rental located on a small farm. The reality was even better than we could have imagined. The owners lived on the property and managed a small flock of sheep, hens, and a band of extraordinarily clever cats. The property was beautiful. The rental was newly built from old structures and situated on the edge of the sheep pasture.

In a stroke of remarkable luck, the heat went out in the rental the day after our arrival. I’m not being sarcastic. It was truly the best thing that could have happened. Our hosts offered to return our money so we could find somewhere else to stay, but we were too enamored of the place to consider leaving. It was April, the house was well insulated and had a fireplace. We knew we could make do.

They provided us with space heaters and let us shower down the lane at their home until the repair was complete a couple of days later. Best of all, they invited us to come for dinner. If the heat had functioned as expected we’d have had a wonderful stay in a beautiful place but we might never have spent enough time together to become friends. As it was we took home the very best souvenir of any trip, a lasting connection with lovely people.

Our stay coincided with lambing season so we met several new additions to the flock just hours after they were born. We were even given the honor of naming a couple of them. We’ve taken many trips together as a family, but this one was special for all of us. We stayed in contact with our new friends, and we talked often of making a return trip. Then, almost one year later, COVID struck.

During COVID days, all connections were remote, and we continued to stay in touch with our friends. They sent videos of life on the farm, the sheep, the cats, the chickens. We would all watch them together around our kitchen table at tea time, sighing over how green the grass was, how big the lambs we’d known had grown. Those videos were a bright spot for us in those dark days. A reminder that the rest of the world was still out there, they sustained us and made us believe that one day we would be out there again, too.

On this fourth anniversary of the COVID lockdowns in the US, I am reminded of how much changed in such a short time, how frightened and unmoored we all felt, and how important it was to maintain connections with loved ones, near and far. I wrote the poem below during that time while we all waited for a life-saving vaccine, for hope, and wondered just how long it would be until life returned to something that felt normal. My husband and I returned to the farm for a visit with our friends last fall. It is just as beautiful, just as idyllic. But, even better than that, it was familiar. It had changed from a place we’d visited once, to the place where our dear friends live.

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My Friend Sends Me Sheep

My friend sends me sheep, 
woolly faces peering at the camera
from under a curling fringe, and I smile 
and wonder if I’m looking at Gladys
or Martha, or Betty. 

My friend sends me sheep
and they run toward her voice through 
fields so green it seems impossible,
when our grass is still the color 
of pale straw and mud.

My friend sends me sheep
and the bits of conversation I overhear 
as she and her husband walk the pastures 
are so close to my ear I almost reply, 
forgetting the distance, and then I miss them.

My friend sends me sheep
who are exuberant in spring, hopping
like lambs, which some of them were
just a year ago when we held them,
soft and sleepy, just hours after birth.

My friend sends me sheep
and it is a gift of such warmth
that I do not know what to send her 
in return, here where winter still clings, where
the puddles are still frozen each morning.

My friend sends me sheep
and if she’ll only wait, perhaps I can
tour her through my garden when 
the peonies are in full bloom. They are
not sheep, but they are exuberant in their way.

---

No reading recommendations this week. My kids have been home from college for spring break, so I’ve been busy spending time with them. I’ll try to have something good for you next week, as well as an update on the sestina.

But I do have one observation. My posts on Notes don’t tend to have lots of views because my circle here is quite small. That is not a complaint; I am happy with my small group of thoughtful readers. But I was surprised when this week one Note I posted seemed to resonate with lots of people. It received more likes and comments than any other so far, by far:

The response leads me to believe that a lot of people are in the same boat I am, bailing madly to try to keep up with the flow of wonderful writing here on Substack. I’ve been finding it a bit demoralizing lately, realizing that I cannot read as much as I have been and still write as much as I need to. I just have too many other demands on my time, including very, very good things like family and friends. But I have felt very guilty about unsubscribing to newsletters by talented writers who may take my action as criticism of their skill when it’s not that at all.

A couple of days later, S.E. Reid posted this thoughtful note about coping with the ups and downs of stats and subscribers.

It also garnered lots of likes and feedback, giving more credence to my concern that, when I unsubscribe from a newsletter, I’m likely hurting someone’s feelings. But… and here’s the point I’ve been trying to make my way toward for several paragraphs… I really don’t mind if you unsubscribe from my newsletter.

I’m delighted that you’re here, truly. But if my weekly emails are part of the pile that hang about in your inbox making you feel a bit guilty then, by all means, unsubscribe with my blessing. I’m sure I’ll see you on Notes. Maybe you can follow me instead. When I unsubscribe to a newsletter it is almost never because I don’t want to read what someone has written. It’s simply that I don’t have the time to read it all, and realizing I am one of those statistical “unopened” data points is making me feel like a jerk.

I recently topped 100 subscribers which is seen here as a meaningful milestone signifying something important. It certainly gave me a warm glow. But when I look at my stats I know that some of those subscribers aren’t opening the emails each week. Maybe they are just using the app. Or maybe, like me, they subscribed because they genuinely enjoyed one of my posts, but are finding they don’t actually have the time to read them.

I see so many posts on Notes each week promising to tell me how to grow my readership here on Substack. I confess, after the first few I saw, I never clicked on another. I’m not looking for a massive number of readers, many of whom aren’t actually readers at all. I’m looking for a supportive community of readers and writers who genuinely enjoy and maybe even look forward to my posts each week. It’s like the difference between a giant mug of weak tea and perfectly brewed little cup. I’ll choose the latter any day.

So let this be a blanket statement to all concerned. If I unsubscribe to your newsletter it is, really and truly, not about you. It’s about me. And if you unsubscribe from mine I promise you I will not be offended. I may even send you a silent congratulations for looking after yourself.

Happy Reading, Everybody. Thanks so much for being here.