Essays
Counting Sheep to Sleep
When the sun goes down and the sky turns dark, but you’re lying there awake and your mind is a race, look for the sheep on your bedroom floor. Watch them line up in neat little rows and take their turns jumping over. See their fluffy coats and cute, little legs.
No two are exactly alike, you’ll see. Each one’s an individual, a unique, special sheep. This one has spots, and that one trots. Some have funny hats, and some have silly scarves, and my favorite of them all has a dimple when she smiles and says rrufff rrufff like a puppy dog.
They take their turns, waiting patiently in rows. They run, and then jump! One at a time, they appear, drifting slowly over. And me? I’m tucked in tight with my blankets and pillows. In graceful arcs, they soar across the ceiling-- one sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four…
Some know me. Some wave as they fly by. Others pay me absolutely no mind.
Whenever I’m restless, I look for the sheep and find them there waiting. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four… And before I know it, I’m not in my bed anymore. I’m someplace else, someplace special, dreamy and warm.
Not everyone can see the sheep by their bed. They can’t see their fluffy coats or their funny heads. They can’t see my favorite sheep and her dimple when she smiles. They can’t hear the sheep shuffling by my bedside.
They can’t hear the sheep baaa with delight, and they don’t believe me that I see sheep every night. They only believe in what they can see and what they can hear. They used to be able to see the sheep, but not anymore.
They’ve forgotten all about the sheep that they’ve seen. They don’t even remember their favorite sheep from back when they were two or three. They don’t remember, and they cannot see, and so they don’t believe.
I can see sheep, and you can too. Most kids can. They see lots of things that others miss, like sheep by the bedside and faces in the clouds, like rainbows in the sprinklers and smiles on teddy bears’ faces. They see dust under the tables and forts in the bushes.
Unlike kids, many grown-ups struggle to believe in what they cannot see. They’re slower to trust, and faith doesn’t come easy. They don’t quite remember being a kid and relying on what others told them. Do they think they’ve always been independent and self-sufficient? They say they think for themselves. You can see their chests puff out and their eyes glaze with pride.
It sounds awfully lonely to think for yourself all the time. It sounds awfully lonely to not have any sheep by your side. It’s no wonder so many have trouble sleeping. They don’t have nearly enough sheep in their keeping.
Some grown-ups like to argue. Some kids too. Both tend to get mad if they argue for too long -- they can be funny when they don’t get along. Some want me to lose faith in my favorite sheep. They want me to be quiet and not make a peep.
Be wary of someone who has given up learning. They’re already made, not fit for more forming. They’ve done all their growing. They’ve had their fill. They’ve had enough. They’ll say they’re all good.
Questions keep us growing, and they can keep us from sleep. We might stay up late wondering where the sheep come from and whether they sleep.
No two are exactly alike, you’ll see. Each one’s an individual, a unique, special sheep. This one has spots, and that one trots. Some have funny hats, and some have silly scarves, and my favorite of them all has a dimple when she smiles and says rrufff rrufff like a puppy dog.
They take their turns, waiting patiently in rows. They run, and then jump! One at a time, they appear, drifting slowly over. And me? I’m tucked in tight with my blankets and pillows. In graceful arcs, they soar across the ceiling-- one sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four…
Some know me. Some wave as they fly by. Others pay me absolutely no mind.
Whenever I’m restless, I look for the sheep and find them there waiting. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four… And before I know it, I’m not in my bed anymore. I’m someplace else, someplace special, dreamy and warm.
Not everyone can see the sheep by their bed. They can’t see their fluffy coats or their funny heads. They can’t see my favorite sheep and her dimple when she smiles. They can’t hear the sheep shuffling by my bedside.
They can’t hear the sheep baaa with delight, and they don’t believe me that I see sheep every night. They only believe in what they can see and what they can hear. They used to be able to see the sheep, but not anymore.
They’ve forgotten all about the sheep that they’ve seen. They don’t even remember their favorite sheep from back when they were two or three. They don’t remember, and they cannot see, and so they don’t believe.
I can see sheep, and you can too. Most kids can. They see lots of things that others miss, like sheep by the bedside and faces in the clouds, like rainbows in the sprinklers and smiles on teddy bears’ faces. They see dust under the tables and forts in the bushes.
Unlike kids, many grown-ups struggle to believe in what they cannot see. They’re slower to trust, and faith doesn’t come easy. They don’t quite remember being a kid and relying on what others told them. Do they think they’ve always been independent and self-sufficient? They say they think for themselves. You can see their chests puff out and their eyes glaze with pride.
It sounds awfully lonely to think for yourself all the time. It sounds awfully lonely to not have any sheep by your side. It’s no wonder so many have trouble sleeping. They don’t have nearly enough sheep in their keeping.
Some grown-ups like to argue. Some kids too. Both tend to get mad if they argue for too long -- they can be funny when they don’t get along. Some want me to lose faith in my favorite sheep. They want me to be quiet and not make a peep.
Be wary of someone who has given up learning. They’re already made, not fit for more forming. They’ve done all their growing. They’ve had their fill. They’ve had enough. They’ll say they’re all good.
Questions keep us growing, and they can keep us from sleep. We might stay up late wondering where the sheep come from and whether they sleep.
Where the Sheep Come From
Where do the sheep come from? Everyone is from somewhere, so where do they call home? These are important questions, and they’ve kept me from sleep. I’ve stayed up late just to think, think, think.
It’s important to know where you come from, most everyone says so. Those are your roots. That’s your first home. That’s where you first romped, stomped, and roamed.
It helps with getting where you’re going to know where you’ve been. It gives you bearings and perspective. Your roots bring you values that you might otherwise have missed.
I come from Missouri. It has many rivers and birds. I grew up near a lake that the wind would make swirl. My roots brought me water, and that water came from rain. The birds taught me songs and the beauty of the start of each day.
They would wake before first light and sing their gladness how night would soon end. When the sun would rise and light fill the sky, the birds would sing, dance, and fly. Each bird with a different song, a mood for the day. There were bluebirds and red birds. There were robins and jays. People so loved them that newborns were given their names.
When dawn had arrived, the air would fill with a most wonderful surprise: purples and blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. No two days ever just alike, each a brilliant and splendid display. Low over the horizon, the sun would bathe the land, and the birds would flit about adding streaks, loops, and spirals most grand.
Missouri has taught me some of life’s most important things. That’s why I now wonder where the sheep come from and what their roots bring.
Sheep, I’m told, come from other sheep, and that’s sensible enough. They’re animals, and animals come from other animals-- at least all those that I’ve seen. Families of sheep live on hills and in prairies and down by streams. Is that where my sheep come from originally?
Do they live outside? On the hills, in the prairies, and down by the stream? How do they sneak their way in and come and find me? How do these sheep move with such stealth, opening doors and climbing the steps? And all without making a terrible mess?
The sheep by my bedside, the sheep that I see, come from my imagination, they come from inside of me. They’re fueled by my thoughts. They’re fed by my memories. They aren’t from the countryside, unless I imagine them to be. They’re my own creation. It’s funny, I’ll admit to say, and, yes, some of them have a backstory that I’ve still yet to dream.
My sheep can surprise me. They’re not under my control. My favorite with her dimple doesn’t always do what she is told. She has a mind of her own and is all the more lovely for her carefree sensibility.
That means that I am their roots, and I’m their first home. I’m like their Missouri, their countryside abode. I taught them to sing and wait patiently in rows.
I taught them to jump and taught them to soar. I picked out their first hats. Now they pick out their own. That’s the natural way, the way things so often go.
I love my sheep, and many of them love me. I love myself, or at least a part of me. When I’m restless and can’t sleep, I keep myself company. I show myself how to wait for tomorrow and bring on my dreams.
It’s easy to love my favorite sheep, even when it’s not so easy to love me. But now I can see that’s awfully, awfully silly.
I made my sheep, and she is quite lovely. She’s one undeniably lovely part of me.
It’s important to know where you come from, most everyone says so. Those are your roots. That’s your first home. That’s where you first romped, stomped, and roamed.
It helps with getting where you’re going to know where you’ve been. It gives you bearings and perspective. Your roots bring you values that you might otherwise have missed.
I come from Missouri. It has many rivers and birds. I grew up near a lake that the wind would make swirl. My roots brought me water, and that water came from rain. The birds taught me songs and the beauty of the start of each day.
They would wake before first light and sing their gladness how night would soon end. When the sun would rise and light fill the sky, the birds would sing, dance, and fly. Each bird with a different song, a mood for the day. There were bluebirds and red birds. There were robins and jays. People so loved them that newborns were given their names.
When dawn had arrived, the air would fill with a most wonderful surprise: purples and blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. No two days ever just alike, each a brilliant and splendid display. Low over the horizon, the sun would bathe the land, and the birds would flit about adding streaks, loops, and spirals most grand.
Missouri has taught me some of life’s most important things. That’s why I now wonder where the sheep come from and what their roots bring.
Sheep, I’m told, come from other sheep, and that’s sensible enough. They’re animals, and animals come from other animals-- at least all those that I’ve seen. Families of sheep live on hills and in prairies and down by streams. Is that where my sheep come from originally?
Do they live outside? On the hills, in the prairies, and down by the stream? How do they sneak their way in and come and find me? How do these sheep move with such stealth, opening doors and climbing the steps? And all without making a terrible mess?
The sheep by my bedside, the sheep that I see, come from my imagination, they come from inside of me. They’re fueled by my thoughts. They’re fed by my memories. They aren’t from the countryside, unless I imagine them to be. They’re my own creation. It’s funny, I’ll admit to say, and, yes, some of them have a backstory that I’ve still yet to dream.
My sheep can surprise me. They’re not under my control. My favorite with her dimple doesn’t always do what she is told. She has a mind of her own and is all the more lovely for her carefree sensibility.
That means that I am their roots, and I’m their first home. I’m like their Missouri, their countryside abode. I taught them to sing and wait patiently in rows.
I taught them to jump and taught them to soar. I picked out their first hats. Now they pick out their own. That’s the natural way, the way things so often go.
I love my sheep, and many of them love me. I love myself, or at least a part of me. When I’m restless and can’t sleep, I keep myself company. I show myself how to wait for tomorrow and bring on my dreams.
It’s easy to love my favorite sheep, even when it’s not so easy to love me. But now I can see that’s awfully, awfully silly.
I made my sheep, and she is quite lovely. She’s one undeniably lovely part of me.
Where the Sheep Go
Where do the sheep go after they jump over my bed? If I follow them, just where will I be led?
I can tell you about my sheep. I can tell you that much. I know for a fact-- or at least I have a hunch-- My sheep go to sleep, just like you and me. They need their rest if they want to stay looking pretty. They’re animals too, and my sheep aren’t too weird. They do all the important things in life, like eat and sleep and go to the bathroom.
When my sheep jump over my bed, I have a pretty good idea of where they will head. They’ll find someplace safe and secure to snuggle in. They want to be chipper for when they next meet the sun. They want to be rested before they have tomorrow’s fun.
My favorite of all goes to her home. It’s a great, big beautiful house that sits under a dome. I’m sure you’ve never seen it, but I insist that you must. You’ll never forget it. In that, you can trust.
But how does she get there? What steps does she take? Where does she go when the hour is late?
My sheep go many places, not just one or two. Before they go to sleep, first they go home. And before they go home, first they must land. Gravity pulls them. Gravity brings them there.
It’s the attraction that exists between all massive things, and believe it or not that includes my incredible sheep. They fall to the ground. They stick their landings and quickly move on, making plenty of room for the next shooting-star-like sheep to fall.
My sheep go to amazing places, and I don’t know them all. My sheep go to place after place, sometimes staying quite long.
But eventually, all my sheep go away, off to a place where I cannot stay.
My sheep go on journeys. They go on quests. They make pilgrimages and great treks.
My sheep leave me, although some come when I beckon.
They stay in my heart. They stay in my mind, long after they’ve said their heartfelt goodbyes.
Nobody knows all the places the sheep go. Some say it’s paradise, and it’s nice to think so-- a wondrous locale with lots of grass and alfalfa and streams to walk by and birds that are chirping and freshly baked pie.
Some say they come back in a different disguise, with a new hat and a new scarf, and maybe different coats and eyes.
Some say they go to where we cannot follow, far far away, in some secret, dark hollow. Someplace we couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Memories fade, and age brings decay. Sheep tend to forget-- that’s the natural way. They might not recognize me by and by, but something will remain, some faint light.
Our minds might forget, but our hearts will hold on. Anything worth seeing is invisible to the eyes, after all. So keep your heart open. Make sure you leave enough room for a sheep... One long, long forgotten that used to help you get to sleep.
I can tell you about my sheep. I can tell you that much. I know for a fact-- or at least I have a hunch-- My sheep go to sleep, just like you and me. They need their rest if they want to stay looking pretty. They’re animals too, and my sheep aren’t too weird. They do all the important things in life, like eat and sleep and go to the bathroom.
When my sheep jump over my bed, I have a pretty good idea of where they will head. They’ll find someplace safe and secure to snuggle in. They want to be chipper for when they next meet the sun. They want to be rested before they have tomorrow’s fun.
My favorite of all goes to her home. It’s a great, big beautiful house that sits under a dome. I’m sure you’ve never seen it, but I insist that you must. You’ll never forget it. In that, you can trust.
But how does she get there? What steps does she take? Where does she go when the hour is late?
My sheep go many places, not just one or two. Before they go to sleep, first they go home. And before they go home, first they must land. Gravity pulls them. Gravity brings them there.
It’s the attraction that exists between all massive things, and believe it or not that includes my incredible sheep. They fall to the ground. They stick their landings and quickly move on, making plenty of room for the next shooting-star-like sheep to fall.
My sheep go to amazing places, and I don’t know them all. My sheep go to place after place, sometimes staying quite long.
But eventually, all my sheep go away, off to a place where I cannot stay.
My sheep go on journeys. They go on quests. They make pilgrimages and great treks.
My sheep leave me, although some come when I beckon.
They stay in my heart. They stay in my mind, long after they’ve said their heartfelt goodbyes.
Nobody knows all the places the sheep go. Some say it’s paradise, and it’s nice to think so-- a wondrous locale with lots of grass and alfalfa and streams to walk by and birds that are chirping and freshly baked pie.
Some say they come back in a different disguise, with a new hat and a new scarf, and maybe different coats and eyes.
Some say they go to where we cannot follow, far far away, in some secret, dark hollow. Someplace we couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Memories fade, and age brings decay. Sheep tend to forget-- that’s the natural way. They might not recognize me by and by, but something will remain, some faint light.
Our minds might forget, but our hearts will hold on. Anything worth seeing is invisible to the eyes, after all. So keep your heart open. Make sure you leave enough room for a sheep... One long, long forgotten that used to help you get to sleep.
Afterword
On Sundays and Mondays, I’d spend the night with Alex and Griffin, my brother and nephew. We would go on hikes and cook big meals and read stories before going to sleep. I decided, I wanted to write a bedtime story.
I thought and I thought, and I thought and I thought. I remembered my friend Garret Conour and his idea for a children’s story. He wanted to know where the sheep go after they jump over your bed when you’re counting them at night. What a wonderful story! I thought. I wanted to know where the sheep go. Even though, truth be told, I had never counted sheep to fall asleep before. His story was enough to make me want to see more.
I thought and I thought, and I thought and I thought. I remembered my friend Garret Conour and his idea for a children’s story. He wanted to know where the sheep go after they jump over your bed when you’re counting them at night. What a wonderful story! I thought. I wanted to know where the sheep go. Even though, truth be told, I had never counted sheep to fall asleep before. His story was enough to make me want to see more.
Just Cloudwatching
"The Joy of Painting" gave me a newfound appreciation for the gradient in the sky with its seemingly infinite number of colors and unmatched service as backdrop.
Cloudwatching has crept its way into one of my favorite things in virtue of its whimsy, grandeur, and ability to stupefy. When given the chance, it is enrapturing.
Creativity forms the foundation for the whole menagerie, and Cloudwatching would have no clout without it.
Create a story for your clouds. The mark of a compelling fiction is change, growth, and development. Thus, as a storyteller, your greatest burden has been lifted. The natural entropy of the world has already provided you with a starting point; next you must wait and observe.
An algorithm is needed next: a function that takes you from color, shape, and relative position to the pigments necessary for painting a truly vibrant portrayal. It is a mere imagination's toss away; there are no mistakes here. An omission is an intended rest; a hiccup, a pick-up note. This is no Atlas Struggle, for 'distance' can be applied with equal aptness to relationships and clouds. Taking the data at face value, you're left with characters.
It's all there; all you could hope for; all you might need; the sky-faring agents loiter in need of personas, canvases devoid of blemish.
To some, the dark side of the moon.
These days, I'm an ever more distant alien, but it still rings of home; more so than brownies or oven-baked cookies.
I share some deep set sympathies with that Neil Young hollering, legend in his own mind, including an appreciation of the ready-to-hand. Nature grants us complexities and intricacies more marvelous than fiction.
Meteorology, fluid dynamics, optics, astronomy, classical physics, and chemistry. Unsolved queries pattern the landscape in a lonesome patchwork; by the nature of inquiry, it yearns for its complement. Let's do our part.
If the fruits of theoretical labor are inadequate motivation, ponder pragmatism. A limber, loose, lively, liver in the head loves losing a lackluster look (largely linked to laziness); unnecessary alliterations aside, love your brain. Thus far we've been stuck with just the one; squandering invites due criticism.
“How does one go about organizing an agenda for mental exercise?”
Cloudwatching. Use your lenses; gaze deeply. All men see their fears in the flames, and we can see candor in the clouds. They only mislead in the form of fog.
With someone to watch, the clouds can dance and delight giving spectacle in the sky.
So if on one of the fading, few, final, veridically breathtaking days, out of incredulity and indignation, one balks and inquires into your actions…
Answer:
"Just cloudwatching."
Cloudwatching has crept its way into one of my favorite things in virtue of its whimsy, grandeur, and ability to stupefy. When given the chance, it is enrapturing.
Creativity forms the foundation for the whole menagerie, and Cloudwatching would have no clout without it.
Create a story for your clouds. The mark of a compelling fiction is change, growth, and development. Thus, as a storyteller, your greatest burden has been lifted. The natural entropy of the world has already provided you with a starting point; next you must wait and observe.
An algorithm is needed next: a function that takes you from color, shape, and relative position to the pigments necessary for painting a truly vibrant portrayal. It is a mere imagination's toss away; there are no mistakes here. An omission is an intended rest; a hiccup, a pick-up note. This is no Atlas Struggle, for 'distance' can be applied with equal aptness to relationships and clouds. Taking the data at face value, you're left with characters.
It's all there; all you could hope for; all you might need; the sky-faring agents loiter in need of personas, canvases devoid of blemish.
To some, the dark side of the moon.
These days, I'm an ever more distant alien, but it still rings of home; more so than brownies or oven-baked cookies.
I share some deep set sympathies with that Neil Young hollering, legend in his own mind, including an appreciation of the ready-to-hand. Nature grants us complexities and intricacies more marvelous than fiction.
Meteorology, fluid dynamics, optics, astronomy, classical physics, and chemistry. Unsolved queries pattern the landscape in a lonesome patchwork; by the nature of inquiry, it yearns for its complement. Let's do our part.
If the fruits of theoretical labor are inadequate motivation, ponder pragmatism. A limber, loose, lively, liver in the head loves losing a lackluster look (largely linked to laziness); unnecessary alliterations aside, love your brain. Thus far we've been stuck with just the one; squandering invites due criticism.
“How does one go about organizing an agenda for mental exercise?”
Cloudwatching. Use your lenses; gaze deeply. All men see their fears in the flames, and we can see candor in the clouds. They only mislead in the form of fog.
With someone to watch, the clouds can dance and delight giving spectacle in the sky.
So if on one of the fading, few, final, veridically breathtaking days, out of incredulity and indignation, one balks and inquires into your actions…
Answer:
"Just cloudwatching."