Maybe I Was Wrong

Maybe there is a cure for anxiety. Goats.

I visited a goat farm on Sunday.* Why? To watch a three-week old charcoal-black goat wrestle about with her chocolate-brown counterpart. They’d clamber up a small boulder and engage in some playful headbutting until, inevitably, one would slide down the rock, bum first. I watched this happen again and again and again. 

Ah, that’s good stuff.

I sat with goats as they chomped on wild grass and cedar shrubs. I watched my kiddo pick up goats and instinctively know when they wanted to be let down. I learned how to redirect a wandering goat back to her herd: “Heeeeeeey, goatie goatie goatie”. Be loud and clap your hands too.

What else? I saw mating monarchs, a bumble bee carrying pollen, gigantic clover. I got lost and followed the goat poop to find my way back. 

What I love about farm animals is this: 

They are warm, inviting, and possess an absolute indifference to your presence. They look you in the eye, comfortable to linger in your gaze as they munch on grass. When you get up to leave, there is no visible longing for one last scratch under the chin. Come, stay, leave. It’s all good. 

To me, a well-cared-for farm animal exudes total contentment, acceptance, harmony. My breath slows just thinking about times spent in their presence. 

Wishing you some time, soon, with the creatures that slow your breath,

nkm

*www.Hautegoat.com There are lots of organized things to do, but ultimately you can just go and stare at goats for free. Lovely Farmer Debbie invites you to roam her 200 acres. Sadly, it requires a car to get there. But there’s talk of a shuttle being set up at some point. Let me know if you find the chess game out in the fields.