Until last week, one of my biggest pleasures in life was visiting a herd of cows. About a dozen of them grazed in a field behind the bus station, picking at clumps of grass in the rocky soil. The cows were squat and brownish in color. Good sturdy mountain cows. Among them were two calves, still mostly white except for the smears of dirt on their flanks (it wasn’t all dirt; calves are fearless about flopping in mysterious piles). Each cow wore a heavy metal bell around their neck. On sunny mornings, the melody of rings and moos was more soothing than a Xanax. I would listen, smile, and hope the cows were being raised for their milk.
Each morning I took the 15 minute walk to see my friends, the cows. A small green stream runs through the valley where I live, and I’d follow its path, grateful for the burbly waters. They move, and they make noise. These are helpful things to observe when one feels stuck and full of doubts. When the eyes and ears are busy, it’s easier for the brain to be still. And of course it was nice to know that the cows were only a few minutes away.
Cows are fascinating to watch because, for most of us, they’re so familiar that we know little about them, aside from the products that are made with bits of their bodies. If you grew up in a rural-adjacent place, perhaps you’re aware cows can be tipped as well. They take big poops. They’re very dumb (nobody actually aspires to attend Bovine University). When I was young, my family would drive past a herd and I’d see ice cream, hamburgers, leather jackets. At the State Fair I’d always complain about visiting the cow barn because of the smell, and also because they were so goddamn boring. Stand in front of a cow for five minutes and you might not see her do anything apart from chewing cud.
If you extend your cow-observation a bit longer, though, things start to get interesting. The herd transforms from an undifferentiated mass of biomaterial into a kaleidoscope of personalities. One day I arrived just as the cows were assembling to drink from the stream. Have you ever seen a herd of thirsty cows? I had not, so I was unprepared for the bizarre effect it has upon the heart. The great beasts took cautious little steps as they approached the water. When they lowered their heads to drink, their simple vulnerability made my eyes burn. I saw the cows as living beings trying to nourish their bodies. The calves squeezed in next to their mothers; seemingly random pairs of adults shuffled along the bank until they were standing side by side. Their tongues lapped up mouthfuls of water and then they sighed with contentment. I’m sure it’s possible to watch this and not cry, if you’re a stronger person than I am.
Two cows in particular caught my attention. They weren’t bigger than the others, nor were their coats more luxurious. These were very ordinary cows. But they were friends. To hell with hedging against anthropomorphization; I know what I saw. I watched one cow rub her head against the neck of the other. She sniffed and licked and even if your heart was made of pure granite you could see the tenderness between them. Little steps of their hooves brought them closer together until their sides were touching. Their bells tinkled together and for a little while these two cows filled the entirety of the universe, to me.
Someone told me that cows like music (if you’re going to fall down a YouTube rabbit hole, that’s a good one) and so I started playing songs for them when I went to visit. Most of the time I picked Catalan havanares—the 19th century mariners’ ballads that are still popular among oldtimers who haunt the seaside taverns of Costa Brava. Marked by wheezing accordions and gravelly harmonies, havanares tend to touch on the small joys and tragedies of life. A ship full of brave young souls sets sail only to be sunk by powerful forces. A romance blossoms one stormy night between a barmaid and a stranded seaman. The sons of the village go off to seek their fortunes in Cuba, and return as grizzled sages. Treasures are won, lost, or revealed to be worthless. Bottles of wine are shared regardless. In many ways the world of the havanares no longer exists, and in others it feels as real as ever. The songs bring me a lot of peace. They seemed to do the same for the cows.
When I arrived at the field last Thursday, the cows were gone. Their clumps of grass were gone too—the field had just been plowed into a flat grey blanket of rocks. The calves were not dozing by the stream. Nobody was rubbing against the scratching trees. If you had happened to pass by the field at that moment, and you didn’t know a herd of cows had been there just the day before, you might have wondered why a man stood by the fence with his hands on his head. But what else could I do? I love my cow friends, and I don’t know where they have gone.
This all may sound a bit melancholy (and it is). To paraphrase Joni Mitchell, we tend to undervalue ordinary pleasures until they’re gone, and the beauty of the cows came from their ordinariness. At any moment, I knew I could escape the world of the computer-box and go see life down by the bus station. It seems normal to feel some loss after such a change. It seems normal to feel fear as well. We all know how the world treats cows.
But I think there are other emotional forces at play as well. As I stood looking at the empty field, I noticed that my heart was buzzing with dread. I also noticed that the feeling dissipated when I stopped feeding it by imaging lurid scenarios. After a while, the dread began to clear and make space for other sensations. I remembered that the shepherds of the valley have always moved their herds to the highlands come summer. I remembered that, yes, it was possible that the cows were being raised for meat—but it was also possible that their shepherd merely wanted some milk to make artisanal cheeses and sweets to sell in the Saturday markets. Our comfortable routine had been disrupted; this was objectively true. Yet it does not follow that only disasters disrupt routines. Sometimes life just happens, and you deal with it as best you can. You find new fields to rest in.
I don’t think it’s mere wishful thinking to imagine my cow friends flourishing in the days to come. As I write these words, such a picture of happiness is out of sight, and I am impatient to see it again. I want to know that things are OK now. But being in the presence of cows has reminded me that joy often manifests on its own timetable—like a calf wandering just out of selfie range, the universe doesn’t share our sense of urgency. At moments like these, all we can do is take deep breaths and feed the feelings we wish to feel.
I have chosen to feed the feelings of love and trust. This is what my friends the cows deserve. I’m looking forward to the day when I can visit them in their little field again, wherever that is. Sometimes I’ll still probably take for granted the joy they bring me. But I think I’ll be quicker to remember how special these ordinary pleasures can be.