Sheep & Symbols

A letter to a close friend at a time of vunerablity and loneliness this winter.
20/01/09

I will start at the inside; it’s as good a place as any.
A book list. No. I will start with a sheep list.

The sheep led me to the books, so it is only right.
The sheep have given me symbols, much earlier than the present, possibly starting with Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist?
Maybe when, as a child I wanted to paint those woolly clouds pastel colours?
Every sentence is a journey isn’t it? What I have just realised is that the sheep thing started when I was rejected from my flock.
The symbol of the black sheep has been a constant for me.
It is only natural then that my interest in coloured sheep, rare breeds, and general outsider sheep has developed since I have moved to the country. It is probably no surprise either that I have a strong pull towards Wales, the hills, Dylan Thomas, and, the sheep.

I wouldn’t say that finding black sheep has become my life’s work, but they call me.
It is also worth noting that it is the fleece I collect, and I try to obtain them from their natural environments. They are also all ewes, some shearlings (1st Year’s shear) but all female.
The woman who teaches me to spin, weave, dye, & felt the wool is F. Nisbet, she is not Scottish, but it is in her blood. She is older, soft skinned and wise.

My first call came from the Shetland. Home turf Sheep. The Balwen followed. A rare breed Welsh. A lonely mountain dweller. Next a Hebridian, a rough wild beast from the Islands of home.
From there a Jacob called me. This is an interesting symbol. At first, I rejected the Jacobs. I didn’t like it. However, I stumbled upon one from Cornwall. Cornwall has always represented a place of peace and harmony, but it also has very strong earth pulls too, thus any dealing I have over my life with Cornwall has been positive. The Jacobs origins are Norse, the home of Odin, the keeper of runes. Another symbol and tool I have used to enlighten myself over time. The Ryeland followed, two in fact, one white, one grey.
My last, my present is the Manx Loughton. Not so black as Ginger.
A four horned beauty, more goat like than sheep. Wild & untamed. In fact, the very sheep from which my fleece has come are to be transported to Jersey, to Devils Hole, guided by the national trust to start a breeding programme, which will see the Manx return to freedom.

The symbols of Sheep.
The first three choices of sheep reflect a pull back & forth to Scotland, what I was, what I could be if I stayed what I would dissolve into if I returned. Love the past, embrace it and learn, but always move on. After all, the Goat must climb.
This basic and obvious lesson always seems so hard for me. My grip is so tight; perhaps it is a fear of heights?
The Jacob arrived as I searched from something else. That searching is connected with the Bible story of Jacob, although at the time, I ignored it and I will do so now, as it will be explained in more relevance when I address books.
The Ryelands were a texture thing. I was seeking softness. I was seeking the grey. Even in a black fleece, there are shades. Spiritual poverty can make everything very black and white. The fleece was teaching me to see the layers, showing me reflections. The more I allow myself to be led, the more shades they point out.
The Manx Loughton is a new vantage point. She represents tradition, old ways and as I said freedom. Wild.
In the mist of this came Maggie. My beautiful Border collie pup. She is wild. Moreover, she knows the sheep. She is a natural.
Our sheep are Shropshire’s. They have amazing wool & a rich history. They are solid, well flavoured, and homely. They are perfect for my man, they represent his spirit, and they mix well with my sheep, a perfect blend in fact.
On a loom they lay perfectly side by side, the colours compliment each other, the strength in the cloth is immense, and the quality is second to none.
When the fleece is still on the beast the story changes. You cannot tame what is inherently wild, nor can you release what is naturally tame. The fire can mix in moments of passion. Can it really produce a flock that is satisfied? We shall see.

The books began with Sara Maitland’s A book of Silence. I read the article and extract in The Guardian (weekend supplements are a very solitary pleasure for me, I have them delivered and I disappear with my coffee and read all morning, as alone as possible with my cubs) and it touched a chord.
I wondered how much of my move to the country is a wish for silence?
Where did my silence lay, more to the point, not where, but what was the noise I was running from, or into?
As I read I saw many similarities in silence with obesity, well with fat, the actually product, not the image.
I saw how the fat became a barrier. How I relied upon it to speak for me, to scream out the pain, not realising its bilingual talents, of which I was only semi fluent.

I saw fat in a different light. I saw it as part of me in a way I hadn’t before.
I felt I was under it, inside it, separate somehow.
I have always been aware that my excess weight was emotional baggage. I knew every time I compulsively ate I was stuffing down emotions I could not cope with.
I didn’t realise how much my need for silence was so I could listen to my body. I actually though I did nothing but listen!
I have sat in silence as I have been abused.
My inner life then (and now) is not reflected by my outer image. I feel I am becoming my authentic self on all levels.
To remove the pyschical layers will take time.

Sara Maitland’s experience of silence is self-imposed, and as such these are the experiences she addresses in the book (as appose to the genetic silence of deafness, or the silence of imprisonment) often relating the experiences of adventurers, such as the early climbers or lone sailors.
A lot of the book deals with silence in terms of religious experiences and this is where my curiosity was roused with the bible.
These silent experiences seem to be a way, all be it extreme, to find the inner voice of truth.
The affect silence has on creativity though is another story, and again a section of the book concentrates on art & music and the effects of silence.
Silence can also be seen as the tool to genius/madness. Either way it is a form of exaltment, an extreme right of passage, and as I said, I related it directly to my experiences of /journey within obesity.

This interested me to read what the church had to say about obesity. My interest started with a reference from a book called The Sorrow of the World, a sermon from Francis Paget the late bishop of Oxford. It begins with an essay on Accidie. Sara mentions several sources of information regarding her research; I luckily managed to track the book down.
Accidie is apparently different from sloth and is the basis of much psychoanalysis of depression. Accidie is described as the noonday demon, a symbol of depression. To suffer from Accidie is to not care, which is seen as a disease.
To succumb to sloth is to wilfully ignore tasks, to become lazy, which is a choice.
If this is the view of the church then it means that Accidie can be cured and sloth should be punished.
I wondered what category obesity was in? On the surface and to society in general obesity is caused by greed. However, we are aware that overeating is a symptom, not the cause of obesity, which is why diets don’t work and women, whatever size struggle to see food as only fuel rather than as the mother/father abandonment.

The easiest way to find out the church’s views seemed to be the bible, but the bible is thus thou and holier than I, so I had to find its words in my language, enter The Bible in Cockney – Would you Adam & Eve it?
This caused me great amusement, but under the surface the old resentments, disbeliefs and chauvinist dominance found in the bible caused me to search else were for answers pushing me forward into a more feminist approach.

I have been scared of the word feminism. I never realised I was a feminist. I am glad I have been awakened to this fact without having to wear some unflattering dungarees.
This is were Fat is a Feminist Issue comes into play. OMG read this book!
I like to think if I had read this book when I was a teenager, my life would have been easier. Rather than regretting my failing to understand my kin I am pleased that I now have greater knowledge of us which I can pass to the cubs, so that they don’t suffer so cruelly at the hands of other women and me.
Read the book, please.

From that book came a flurry of ideas, interests, and stories. Before I carry on with the book list here is a wee extract from a short story I am writing.
The theme is conflict.
I am trying to convey the compulsive eating experience, as in an actual binge.
Currently the title is 40lbs of tears.
I am trying to find the words to rewrite the phrase ‘a pound of flesh’ but I want it to be more subtle. I don’t think I am there yet.
Anyway, the story is not written yet, however I have sections that I like the descriptive of and I am hoping the rest will just kinda curl its way round them.

The Book list (in order of how I think I will read them now that Clarissa is in my hands)

The interpretation of fairy tales Marie-Louise Von Franz

Between women – love, envy &
Competition in women’s friendships Susie Orbach & Luise Eichenbaum

All the women of the Bible Edith Deen

Sea Room Adam Nicolson

Small boat – Big Sea Peter Owen Jones

The Noonday Demon – Andrew Solomon
An anatomy of depression

Cave in the snow Vicki MacKenzie

Mindfulness based Rebecca Crane
Cognitive Therapy

I will also be reading a few others, but they are easy to inner change with the above, so they will be (sometimes) light relief from the above. They are as follows

The Message – The bible remix Eugene H Peterson

The Madwomen’s Underclothes Germaine Greer

Hell have no fury- edited by Anna Holmes
Women s letters from the end
of the affair

Like the flowing river Paulo Coelho

I sit, I spin, I card , I weave. I think.
I throw pots, and tantrums.
I cry a lot. Mainly with frustration. Sometimes with emotion. Never with happiness.
I become angry like I have never known, or was not aware of before.
I become angry at the girls when they fight over nothing, when they tease each other.

I cook a lot. I study my livestock. I watch the dogs play.
I walk. I think.
I watch the sky, study the patterns of the weather.
I feel waves of loneliness overtake me.
Sometimes I think I have made a big mistake with He.
Other times I think I need more patience.
I should be happy that I feel anything but I am not.

Sometimes I drink heavily, to get through a passionless day.
I talk. No one listens. No one answers.
‘I love you mummy’ breaks the death of relationship.

I don’t know where I am. I can imagine where I want to be. I don’t know how much they actually compliment each other.
It’s that transition thing. Even re-adjusting my truth to account for not living with a bastard is hard, it is all I have even known.
In a way, a big way, I am living the dream, yet still I feel the void.
I crave intellectual stimulation and I do not receive it from outside of myself.
I watch blooming and growing with so much relish, I love to see the pride those wee girls have with their achievements, but still it does not touch me like I believe it should.
I still see everything through frosted glass.
I am 98% happy. 40% Is the girls. 15% is environment 22% is from inside 21% is from He. The missing percent is the void.

Is death he only way to fill it? Is that void the thing that separate me from the divine, like language separates us from the animals.
Will my constant searching only be sated by enlightenment, either holy or Darwinest?

I have also realised that my man is silence. His calm and solid presence is quiet. He is not the predator. He is something though. I am not sure what. Do I represent something to him as well? Safety, matronly, motherly me.
He is a wonderful parent. The girls love him. He is a gentle and understanding teacher. He spends time. He helps them.
He encourages me. He has faith in me. He can not express it. I need to hear it, or feel it.
I have married a mute.
Emotional flatline.
Battering a fragile trust whilst I feed a wounded ego.