How many shepherds can lead a flock?

Pardon the allusion to Christianity, but I think the reference could be a valid one. All of us play different roles in our life – sometimes we are a leader, and sometimes we are a follower. Sometimes we are even both simultaneously. I, personally, am comfortable, generally-speaking, oscillating between being a shepherd and being a sheep, depending on the circumstance. Moreover, I’d like to think I understand the importance and value of taking on both roles, not just to me, but also to my larger community.

Where I struggle, however, is when more shepherds emerge than are needed and when they don’t talk with each other – or worse, they talk at each other. So, it goes like this: There are 200 sheep hanging out on a grassy knoll when someone notices a storm off to the west. He thinks the sheep better find shelter before the rain and lightning comes, but none of the sheep seem to have a clear idea of how to get home. So he stands up, grabs a shepherd’s hook and starts herding them northeast. Someone else sees Shepherd A leading the flock northeast but thinks that due north would be a more direct route. So she stands up, grabs a hook and starts herding. Then a Shepherd C, D, E, F and G stand up, each herding the flock in a different direction. Shepherd A looks back about a mile into the journey and sees the 200 sheep divvied up into groups all tackling the same problem in a different way and shouts to the other herders, “Hey, I’m going this way. It’s safer.” Shepherd B shouts back, “And I’m going this way. It’s faster.” Some shepherds don’t even respond. Hours later, some of the shepherds and their smaller flocks arrive back home together and discuss their journeys. Others were lost along the way, gave up or found new homes that didn’t require all of the walking. Still others broke up into even smaller flocks, content to stand shivering in the rain as long as they didn’t have to follow someone with a shepherd’s hook.

I find this scenario very sad for many reasons. First, I cherish the idea of a large community. I suppose it has to do with growing up in a big city with big families on both of my parents’ sides. Second, I believe much more can be accomplished with team work than with individual efforts. Third, if folks choose to be part of a flock, a certain level of trust, cooperation, appreciation and respect should be innate. Dividing into sub-flocks makes achieving these impossible.

I’d much rather be among a flock of birds. When birds fly south together for the winter, they do so in a “^” shape. One bird starts at the front, bearing the brunt of the wind while the other birds, flying in an aerodynamic position, can coast. After a period of navigating and leading, the front bird gets tired and falls to the rear. A different bird then emerges as leader and takes the position of front bird. This process continues until the flock reaches its destination. Some birds may not get the chance to lead, and some lead for shorter times, but through cooperation and support, the entire flock reaches the sunny beaches they were aiming for.

I am in a group right now that is dangerously close to being led astray by the sheer number of shepherds. Attempts to unite the sheep to more closely resemble the flock of birds
is being construed as a few shepherds trying to make themselves Supreme Shepherds Over All Things Sheepish. I fear that unless something is done quickly, our flock of sheep will be lost forever, and we will lose our community, our friends, and everything we’ve all worked so hard for. There will be nothing left to lead ... and no one to follow...

And now for a Deep Thought by Jack Handy:
"I hope if dogs ever take over the world, and they choose a king, they don't just go by size, because I bet there are some Chihuahuas with some good ideas."

Recreating Passion

I feel as though I'm surrounded by a baby boom and am one of the few women not participating. Children, therefore, have been on my mind a lot lately, and not just because I desperately want to be a mother but, as of yet, have had no luck. No, I have somehow been getting past that and have been thinking about parenting, about all of the wonderful fathers and mothers I have seen recently, about how lucky I was to have my parents, and about what kind of parents I want us to be. I want us to be the kind of parents who teach our children respect -- both for themselves and others -- and who discipline so they learn right from wrong and who encourage so they grow up to passionate, creative contributors to society.

And it was on that subject of encouragement that I found myself dwelling for a bit. I remembered a friend of mine, Jeff, talking about his daughter Abby and how much she LOVED to draw. He once said that she'd be fine skipping school, dinner and playtime if she could just have a box of crayons and paper. An artist himself, he obviously encouraged her passion.

I had passion like that, too, once. Mine was for writing. When I was 9, I wrote a short story just for fun and showed it to my parents. My dad, who worked maintenance at a warehouse in Chicago, was so proud, he took it to his work and showed it to all of his buddies. Now, I tear up thinking about that, but then, I was just happy he liked it. He and my mom encouraged me and my writing for many years after that. The plays I wrote for class and for kicks in grade school -- none of which were very good, of course -- the poems I wrote in high school, and ultiumately, teh fiction I wrote in college. They supported my decision to pursue my MFA in creative writing (fiction), a degree I still have not finished but that I can't seem to let go of.

Somewhere over the past decade, it seems that I let all of that passion I had for writing slip away. The fearlessness I had in showing my teachers and parents my creative output was replaced was self-imposed critical thoughts of "it's not good enough; you're not good enough" and eventually every word of fiction I wrote became a chore that tied my stomach up in knots and brought on feelings of guilt for not having sat down to write it so much sooner. And now, my desire to finish my degree seems to be more out of the need for closure and to make my parents proud than to make use of it in a professional sense. After all, I still think both I and my writing are not good enough.

I've lost my childhood passion for writing, and it shows as my thoughts aimlessly wonder around on the page, my characters remain flat, my plots confuse or bore the reader, my description either drones on or falls horrifically short. If I could have one wish granted today, it would be to somehow find within me that sense of innocence I had when writing as a child, that abundance of confidence, that courage to write word after word, sentence after sentence, oblivious of the critical editor within. If I could have two wishes granted, the second would be for Rich and me to have a baby, so that we could support that child in whatever he or she found passion in. And maybe that enthusiasm would be contagious, and I could borrow a litle bit to keep me on track for the rest of my life.

But alas, wishing-granting genies do not exist, at least not in my fiction, so I am faced with having to create my own passion. Unfotunately, I am baffled at how to accomplish that feat.

I'll leave you with a Deep Thought from Jack Handy:

"The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face."