Yesterday morning the first of our spring lambs arrived – just in time for Easter and just as cute as can be. This little ramling is named Spot, for obvious reasons.

Meet Spot. He’s got a black spot around each eye and one on the middle of his back. Maybe we should have called him “Spots,” but somehow that just didn’t sound right.

Spot was born yesterday morning and today is already chasing chickens, sampling hay and jumping in and out of the feed tray. While his mom, Cricket, is spending much of the afternoon laying down and resting, Spot is climbing on her back, pawing at her tummy with his tiny hooves and rubbing his little chin softly on her ears. I’ve never seen a lamb do that, but he does it over and over. Cricket will flick one ear, then the other, as Spot teases her. He’ll rub his chin along her nose, too. Sweet.

Then he’ll go and torment the two hens that are setting on nests on opposite sides of the pen. He’ll bother one, then the other, pouncing toward them and threatening to head-butt. They puff up their feathers in warning, squawk, then peck his nose and he leaps away. Next, Spot trots over to me to sniff my boots and suddenly he runs away to collapse asleep in the circle of light below the heat lamp.

Lambing season, which for many shepherds comes in early spring around here, is the sort of wonderful that makes all the hard work of caring for animals in winter disappear from memory. Something about watching lambs play with their moms and each other is incredibly nurturing and healing. The feeling is surprisingly hard to describe, perhaps because when I’m watching the quiet new families I often absolutely lose myself. I’m unaware of time passing and I’m actually unaware of thinking at all. Lamb-watching is an intensely absorbing kind of meditation – for me, anyway. I don’t know if it works that way for anyone else. Something about them completely draws me in.

First, there is the smell of the barn. New lambs are kept with their moms in a back corner of our little stone calving barn for a few days until we can make sure all is well. Their eight-by-eight pen is sheltered from the wind, but lit by a high window on one side. We keep the bedding in there fluffed and fresh, so it always smells grassy. The sheep have a cozy smell all of their own which is sort of earthy, and nursing mammals all seem to emanate a certain warm sweetness.

Then there are the sounds. Lambs don’t make a lot of noise unless they are hungry, but we always have a few chickens in and out of the pen quietly clucking and pecking, and looking for left-over food. Cricket occasionally murmurs to Spot when he gets too far away. She literally sounds like a female Chewbacca. And sometimes one of the other ewes sticks her face over the top of the wooden pen and gently baaaas or hummmms.

Sheep aren’t always so gentle. In fact, they are generally quite rough because their skittish nature makes them move very fast away from anything that worries them and toward anything that interests them. But sheep are also very protective and seem to appreciate the extra human attention during lambing season. Lambs seem to bring a sense of peace and grace to the flock. The ewes with new babies are usually calm and easy to handle – perhaps because we bring them special treats and warm molasses water – and they actually seem to invite the gaze of admiring visitors. Are they proud of their little ones? It certainly seems so. While Cricket reclined in the pen this afternoon, Spot nestled tightly between her rump and the wall, I climbed in there with them and lost myself for a while. She gazed at me with soft eyes and seemed pleased to share her peace with me. I was grateful to accept.