All the Kings Men.

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 "For when you get in love you are made all over again. The person who loves you has picked you out of the great mass of uncreated clay which is humanity to make something out of, and the poor lumpish clay which is you wants to find out what it had been made into. But at the same time, you, in the act of loving somebody, become real, cease to be part of the continuum of the uncreated clay and get the breath of life in you and rise up. So you create yourself by creating another person, who, however, has also created you, picked up the you-chunk of clay out of the mass. So there are two you's, the one you yourself create by loving and the one the beloved creates by loving you. The farther those two you's are apart the more the world grinds and grudges on its axis. But if you loved and were loved perfectly then there wouldn't be any difference between the two you's or any distance between them. They would coincide perfectly, there would be a perfect focus."

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

I was awake.

I had laid there, lifelessly, for what felt like years. I begged my eyes not to open, pleading insanity and began hoarding my sheep. If only I could stay like this. If only I could drift away, into a wide, open, breezy pasture that saluted one sole tree, looking content, and far off in the distance. I'd count sheep all day, I thought. Nothing but counting would matter - 14, 15, 16 - I imagined them in a line, waiting patiently as ever for their shepherds duty. All that the sheep wanted was a number, and all I had to worry about was giving them one - and that was easy. I would begin to know them by heart - the way number 9 walked, the way number 21 was rather sensitive, the way number 17 always wanted to be number 1, the way number 1 felt a huge weight of obligation, of being first in line. The way number 6 looked to me for comfort, nuzzling its face into my side. The way number 13 played, eyes wide and happy, the way 12 would protect me, the way 8 would sigh, the way 19 would call to me, the way 4 would reach for me, the way 2 would love me.

Time went by and my sheep became my life - I had purpose, and I cherished each of them. I was always watching, ready to relieve, to restore, to reinvigorate.

Then one went missing. I looked everywhere - I begged and begged the other sheep to help me look, to bring it back, but they consoled me instead, and promised the one would return. Days go by and I feel frantic as if I'm slipping from my little world of perfection.

I'm now missing two.

I try to forget and move on. The other sheep meaningfully proposed dreams and ideas and theories that I could cling to, and so I did.

I began to feel better. The sun was out most days, and I could get along just fine. Counting wasn't as easy as it used to be, especially after the first two losses, but I managed and started focusing on new things. I wanted to explore, I wanted to commit, I wanted to pursue. I started looking at other pastures in my off time, and some of the sheep came with me. They nodded in agreement as we went from one scene to the next, acknowledging and approving.

We finally made it back to our field to find the remaining sheep waiting. I was relieved they were still there, and was overflowing with hope and trust. I was excited, and clambered into my hut for sleep. I was exhausted.

My enthusiasm overflowed into the next morning, and the next, and the next. I planned and planned and went over all of our possibilities until my creativity was shot. I was connected to my sheep, I felt them, I heard them, and I knew them. And they were connected to me.

Slowly but surely, however, one by one went missing. At first I tried to accept the reality, that I would love the remaining sheep with all I had in hopes that they too, wouldn't leave, but I couldn't easily shake these obvious voids. I dearly missed those that had been lost. I helplessly reached for the others to send out a search party, but again, I was only met with words. This time they were cold and I felt as if I had failed them. They had high hopes for a shepherd who could count well. That's all they ever wanted, was just to be counted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I cried out to them, begging for forgiveness and to let me try again, but they walked away and out of sight. I collapsed to the damp ground from the morning dew, and my body began to tremble. I was alone, and I wasn't enough.

I didn't just want to count and I didn't just want to give numbers.

I wanted it all to mean more than just that.  

My eyes opened.

The dull, white, and unbecoming ceiling was an oxymoronic slate above me. Though years of paint had gone up on the interior walls, the ceiling had been neglected and always remained the same. I stared straight into it, and found that its outward appearance was a great deception. It had so much to tell me, but sat there silent, instead.

I give myself a few moments to become readjusted. I gently roll to my side and push up and greet the sun cascading before me. My hair is a mess and I've been in this sweatshirt for days.

I clamber out of bed, down the hall, and into the living room.

There's a fire going and I smile at Dad's non-verbal form of affection. I grab a cup of coffee and blanket and curl up beside it. Mom and Brother are busy both in the kitchen and in the other room, and my soon to be Sister greets me from the door. Family and friends both write, call, and take me away, and I can't help but feel their warmth - not just for me, but for my sheep, as well, and what they mean to me.

There's a reason why He's called a Savior - that even when I could feel so dejected, defeated, beaten, and broken - I feel the safest on my knees, where I can only look up. I suppose it's a place we all need to be sometimes.


And what a place at that.


 

The Pearl.

"He had said, "I am a man," and that meant certain things to Juana. It meant that he was half insane and half god. It meant that Kino would drive his strength against a mountain and plunge his strength against the sea. Juana, in her woman's soul, knew that the mountain would stand while the man broke himself; that the sea would surge while the man drowned in it. And yet it was this thing that made him a man, half insane and half god, and Juana had need of a man; she could not live without a man."