It’s a lesser known (or lesser stressed?) tidbit that Poseidon has a sheep connection. It was not universal, the story of Poseidon and his siblings getting swallowed by Kronos, only to be disgorged by Zeus’s cleverness. In one version (preserved by Pausanias), Poseidon was whisked away and hidden in a flock of lambs, protected and cared for and kept safe from his father’s murderous intent.
I adore sheep. I want to have sheep. I want, desperately, to have grown up knowing that I could one day have sheep. Choices might have been made differently. I would have loved to have grown up knowing I could have a farm. I can’t, now. Oh, I mean, I could — but it would require putting off living now and just saving and saving and saving and saving and cutting living expenses, which for us would mean rehoming everyone. And, you know? I’m not into cutting my family into pieces *now* for the family I might have later. Still, a spinning flock would be awesome.
We will likely have bunnies, one day.
But this post isn’t to moan about sheep that I don’t have. It’s to wax poetic about sheep I have adored. June 22-24th was Black Sheep Gathering, one of the fiber festivals held in Oregon (the others that I know of are Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival, or, OFF, and the Columbia Gorge Fiber Festival. BSG is superior for us simply due to its walkable distance.
Typically, my idea of a good time is not spending time browsing and shopping on my days off. However, this day was mostly about getting raw material for Beth’s business and, you know, flirting with ram lambs. Which we did. At length. Including head nuzzles and nose scritches.
It’s an odd combination of a day to honor Frigga and, for me, Poseidon. Unrelated, only not.
And, I get it. Because sheepies are extremely zen. And Poseidon is extremely zen. Is it possible that he learned his zen-ness from sheepies? I think so . . .
Also, shetland sheepies are like doggies, I swear. “Touch me! Touch me! TOUCH ME!!!!”