In the cathedral of my morning, only the light of the screen illuminates my hands as I keyboard in the clicks that will become strings of letters that mean something. But then I am jarred by the sound of gnawing. I have shown up as usual, in my habitual earnestness, like a monk who has risen for matins. I assure myself that nothing has changed as half-baked notions and tenuous connections tug me this way and that. Nothing except for that gnawing sound. And it has altered ever so slightly. Enough to concern me. And so I stand up, peek into the next room to confirm that this big puppy is still on task with his purple pig. I return to the keyboard, to the poem, the prayer, the paean. Where was I? What was I groping for? What was so important that it pulled me from the warmth of my bed? What needed to be expressed with such urgency that I could not simply let it pass as one of a zillion thought bubbles over my sleeping form?
And then the gnawing sound stops altogether and I am truly concerned because although it might mean he’s fallen back asleep, it could also be that he’s crept off to find a shoe or chew on a table leg. All week long in this first week with him, I’ve kept one eye glued to him and been impressed by his chutzpah and tenacity as he finds creative new ways to utilize his monkey mouth. And so I abandon my keyboard and morning musings again to investigate, only to discover that everything is fine. Even though I remind myself that nothing has changed—I am still a spiritual seeker after all, a morning writer and meditator—I do not return to my keyboard. Instead I plunk down on the floor half-lotus and the big galoot flops into my lap, rubbing his sleepy eyes on my thigh and then falling instantly into a dream.
I am really and truly trapped now and so I decide to shift my morning plan. I am, after all, disciplined but not rigid. Yes, I will be flexible. I can do that. As his light snoring and twitching begin, as the scent of puppy breath rises, I follow my my own breath and drop in. I straighten my back and focus on the air flowing through my nose and find that I am distracted by the fact that I am pinned to the earth by this baby, this beast. He who cares nothing about my worthiness or my essays or the quality of my “awareness practice.” He who dreams now of his mother’s warm belly, of herding sheep, of roaming alone on some ancient savannah. While he breathes big puppy breaths, I breathe quietly, as one unwilling to disturb a sleeping puppy.
And then, as my hand rises with a will of its own to stroke the silky ridge between his ears, a single thought arises in me. It is one I do not attempt to chase away or even to examine. Somehow I know in this instant that this will be the thought that orients me throughout this day, perhaps much longer. And it is not a thought of gratitude or acceptance or detachment. It is not about liberation or compassion or doing the right thing. Today I will have only one simple mantra, just two words to contain all that wants to be said. “Good boy,” I whisper as I lean back against the sofa and join my puppy in his dreamland.
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