“Get the flow going!” is a lesson my Jersey cow gives me every morning. Sometimes, I feel tired; sometimes I wonder how I will keep my hands warm in bitter cold. Once I get to the barn, I am blessed by our morning's tryst.

Hazel is a gentle cow. We have settled into an easy routine. I put a tub of feed in the corner of an outdoor stall; I clip her halter to the lead that is tied to its railing; I open the stall's gate; I fork out manure on its floor; I spread clean hay there; I wipe her teats with antibacterial soap; I say good morning to her and pat her haunch several times.

Sunlight streams into the area; mist rises from the ground; the air stirs in this protected area under the south side of the barn. I squat close to her, reach under her udder and squeeze the back far teat with my thumb and two fingers. A thin stream flows at first, then becomes more robust. I move my hand to the front near teat. It is larger and I press my four fingers and palm around it. A stream spirals into the bucket. The pail soon holds a quart of frothy milk. Hazel finishes her feed and gets a little edgy.

I stand up, dump the milk into a larger pail and retrieve two large alfalfa cubes and a flake of hay for her. She turns her head towards me. I throw the hay into the corner of her stall and feed her the alfalfa cubes out of my hand. I tell her what a good cow she is. I begin again, touching the front near teat first to make sure she is settled with me. The back near teat always starts slowly and sprays wildly; the front far teat is weakest and streams thinly. All the teats are supple and responsive to my touch; they start slowly, fill over and over again with milk after I press the milk into the bucket. Finally, they become flaccid, and I carry about a half gallon of milk back to the house.

I read her like a catcher reads the incoming pitch: ready to step aside, if need be. I watch how she positions her back leg. Occasionally she kicks to express annoyance. It is not intended as a take-down punch: she swings her leg wide with little power, like a girl who does not know how to throw a ball. More often, she sways forward to reach for food near the corner of her stall; other times, she moves her leg forward, almost coyly resisting being milked. I step back then tap her leg just above her hoof, pat her haunch several times, and say, “Move your leg back, honeybun. Move your leg back.” She always has. “Good girl! Good girl!” I croon and pat her again.

I sing her simple child-like songs in rhythm to my hand movements, my voice held as in an amphitheater in the concave area between her leg and her belly. I feel the flow of life—the energy that comes from the sun to the grass, to the cow, through me to feed us. At times, birdsong rises; the goose hisses and honks. On cold mornings, I lean my head close to her and steam rises from the pail into my face. My hand stays warm against her udder.

“It's transformation!” a friend comments. Indeed it is: Hazel and I begin as separate beings. Then we enter an intimate dance. I give her my presence and the gift of song; she shares her presence and her milk. I mound her manure and spoiled hay into compost piles and feed the compost to the soil so the soil can feed us. From self to other; from other to self; from heaven to earth; from earth to heaven. Have we forgotten what wonder there is in milking a cow? In sharing our own unique presence?

Several friends now gather weekly to make cheese, yogurt, buttermilk, whey and butter. We eat wonderful food as we visit together. In my life, perhaps I have learned to go with the flow; I have learned from my cow, to get the flow going.