Mindful of the present
Copper–my 4-year old Australian Shepherd –hates baths.
When I took Copper to the self-serve dog wash the most recent time, I got him ready to be washed by lifting him into the tub and connecting him to a short lead so he can’t jump out and run to freedom. After a close inspection when I removed his collar, I realized it was worn and falling apart. In just a couple years of use, it was so dirty on the inside I felt bad putting it back on his neck once he was clean! I also noticed that the name on his tag had all but scratched off, and the address listed was not even correct. A new collar was a must, and I vowed to head to the pet store as soon as possible for an upgrade.
A few days later I came home with a brand new, green plaid collar and a new legible name tag with the correct address. I began the process of switching his rabies tag and name tag to the new collar and then resizing it to make it fit. Once complete, I proudly donned my super-smelling Aussie with the new set-up, and asked, “How do you like your new clothes, Copper?” He shook his head, which jingled the tags hanging from his neck, and I was completely taken aback.
I’m not sure if it was because it was the new ring on the new collar or the way I connected the rabies vaccination tag and the name tag this time around, but suddenly, I could hear Copper’s every move. The jingle sounded different–more pronounced and higher pitched–and I could not stop hearing it. If he repositioned while on his bed, I heard him. If he moved to a new room or new part of the house, I heard him. If he even turned his head while I was sleeping, the unfamiliar jingle woke me up.
It was the tiniest of changes, but suddenly I was completely aware of my dog, who ironically had been moving just as much the day before–I just wasn’t mindful of it.
Suddenly mindful of the present–what a glorious revelation! It was a sign of change and new expectations. And all because of some metal dog tags.
I basked for days in my enlightenment that came from the jingling of the dog tags. If Copper moved in the night–I was aware. If he shook his head, I was attentive to the sound. If he shifted his weight or jumped or turned or scratched, I was mindful, cognizant, awake. I had become a sentient being in the nirvana of jingling metal tags, and my internal illumination had roused a whirl of mindfulness in a bunch of areas of my life. My brain was stimulated–stirred by the concept of mindfulness – and I began to apply the metaphor across different areas of my life. My new awareness had become a model to live by: Stay present! Be engaged! Find newness in all things, all the time! Live deliberately!
And then… about eight days later, I realized that I hadn’t heard the jingles for a couple days.
I was devastated. My awareness had been so fresh and genuine! And then, without warning, I got used to the new sound. Copper’s tags once again blended into the background, the same way they had just a week earlier.
I’d love to sit down and tell you about all the ways I work to keep my life, my heart and my faith lively and new, but in all honesty, much of the time it seems like my life is playing out repeated versions of the dog tag scenario. Something is new and creative, I am intrigued, I make changes and vow to stay abreast of the present, and then without my even knowing it, I find that somewhere behind me the idea and the newness dissolved.
But as I sit here and listen to the tiny snores of my sleeping dog laid out across the rug, I feel the quiet familiarity that surrounds him. I did find great enlightenment those two or three days I was so aware of his presence, but the flip side of that scenario was this: it was also SUPER annoying. The day that I realized I was no longer noticing the new jingle of the tags, I was actually a bit grateful for my brain’s ability to filter certain noises. I realized at that point that there’s a certain amount of awareness I need in my life to poke and prod me back into the present. And then there’s a certain amount of ease that comes when the parts of my life are recognizable and well-known.
Like all the meaningful relationships in my life, my relationship with God is a delicate balance between unexpected changes, a sense of awareness and the comfort of falling effortlessly into a familiar place. I am so grateful to have discovered the practice of mindful meditation earlier this year–it helps bring me to a place where my mind and body are at peace and extremely present. But after each meditation I write in a journal, and I find that it’s those moments when I am almost emptied out that I find new revelations about God and faith and my role in the big picture. Likewise, I am endlessly intrigued when I read a new book on theology or a story about someone’s life of faith I haven’t heard before. I adopt new ways of thinking about God’s love and acceptance, but often, in the end, I find that I go back to the familiar passages of my childhood:
“Love God with all your strength, your soul, your mind, your heart. Love your neighbor as yourself …
I know the plans I have for you – plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future…
Not only that, but we rejoice in our suffering, for our suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love…”
I long for newness routinely in my life, and often times,
I do find it. Usually it is not because I went out searching for it, but because some unexpected circumstance forced it on me.
My real growth, however, has always come in my ability to settle back into the familiar while at the same time remaining intimately connected to the slight shift that changed me in some way. It’s my ability to feel at ease and truly be myself that allows me to have the strength to step in new directions. My brain does a great job filtering out the unnecessary noise, but my faith, on the other hand, never forgets the rung it jumped from last.