It’s Saturday. I am taking some guests to see the milking herd. We walk up the dirt path (or track, as co-owner Geoffrey calls it), taking our time. Beside us, grasshoppers are jumping in the pasture. One of the barn cats, a sleek black mama cat, perches on an old log in the pasture, waiting for the exuberant insects to take flight. Her copper highlights flare in the afternoon sun as she suddenly leaps and pounces, catches one, then walks carefully through the grass over to the dirt where two kittens are watching. They rush toward her as soon as they notice the insect legs sticking out of her mouth. I predict it will be the larger, more courageous orange kitten to get the prize once mama drops it, but it’s actually the shy Calico who snatches the juicy treat first. She struggles to keep it in her mouth as she creeps beneath a tractor parked nearby to eat it.

Taking guests to visit the cows is always rewarding. Everyone loves those pretty girls, with their large liquid brown eyes and graceful horns reaching up like antennae (their connection to the celestial plane, according to Rudolf Steiner). They stand and they stare, their gaze curious, expectant. As if to say, Oh, it’s you. Okay. What happens next? A couple of girls wander over to the fence to sniff our outstretched hands; one of them wants to taste our skin, reaching with her big rough tongue. Some lay in the grass with legs folded gracefully to one side, their jaws slowly working. The air is saturated with their contentment. We linger, we all feel it, and are reluctant to break the spell. The sun shines down, warm on our heads, tempered by a light breeze. A few of the cows graze, ripping the grass in rhythmic bursts, swishing their tails. Someone sighs. Someone else says: Aren’t they beautiful? Isn’t this just so peaceful? Indeed!