Mindful Meditation meets Dog Psychology

I am lying on my bed trying to meditate.

Trying to engage in mindful meditation, to be accurate.

Mindfulness, I am learning in my wonderful Buddhism class, is the state of being in the present moment. Living in the now.

Something I’ve always had a very hard time doing.

The regrets of the past and the worries of the future always have a firmer hold on me than anything I am experiencing in the present moment.

But that’s one of the reasons I am taking this class. I know I am missing a lot by not living in the now. Maybe Buddhism can help me find that place in time.

Our instructor told us to try mindful meditation for 25 minutes a day. So I am here on my bed in the early evening trying to meditate.

But there’s someone else on the bed: Maddie.

I realize most sane people (and definitely sane people who don’t have dogs) would say, “What the hell are you doing with a dog on your bed when you’re trying to meditate? Do you ever see pictures of Buddhist monks meditating with their faithful canine friends at their side?”

Well, no.

But for those of you who have dogs, you know what would happen if I tried to kick Maddie off the bed — and let’s not even get into locking her out of the room.

Maddie is very sure of few things in life — she’s a nervous kind of labradoodle — but one thing she is very certain of: Her place is at my side.

As I write this, she is flopped on the floor next to me, tired from our 2 hour trek through the park this morning, content from her bowl of breakfast, and relaxed because … she’s near me.

So getting rid of Maddie isn’t an option. Not even for a 25 minutes.

I lie on the bed and think: Forget about Maddie. Stop fixating on the dog. Relax .. let go … let go …

There are some voices outside, and I feel my body tense. Any second now, Maddie is going to erupt. How am I going to meditate with manic barking 12 inches from my head?

Relax … let go …

I remember something a yoga teacher said ages ago about meditation: “Thoughts will try to come into your mind, but don’t push them away. Think of them as clouds, momentarily blocking out the sun. These thoughts will float away on their own, leaving your mind clear.”

Maddie hasn’t even barked yet, I think. I am stressing about my meditation being interrupted by something that hasn’t happened — and may never happen. Why am I thinking about this when I should be thinking about nothing?!

Let go … let go .. like clouds blocking the sun …

I inhale through my nose and exhale deeply. Nothing calms my crazy mind like a deep exhale. I feel my body relax, my focus becomes less focused …

Maddie suddenly twitches and then viciously begins chewing a toenail.

Oh, for God’s sake! Just when I am starting to relax and sink into it, she has to gnaw away at her toenail?! What’s on her toe that’s suddenly so itchy? Why does she have to chew at it so loudly?

Let it go … relax … the clouds will move away …

I try — but I know me.

There is no way I am going to be able to sufficiently relax while Maddie could bark, chew, move, sneeze .. do anything at any given moment.

I exhale again — but this time it’s in exasperation.

So what am I saying? That I can never meditate while I have a dog?

And then it occurs to me. Cesar always talks about “dog psychology.” I am a great fan of Cesar — he is my guru. Following what he preaches has allowed Maddie and me to have a more normal life than I ever dreamed possible. We have so much fun together, and none of this would’ve been possible if I hadn’t discovered Cesar.

I think about what I’ve learned, about how when I am walking Maddie my anxieties travel down the leash to her. How I’ve worked on being calm when we see other dogs, other people … and how I know my calmness (feigned or not) has helped transform this dog into who she is (who we both are) now.

So maybe I can transfer the calmness, the stillness of meditation to Maddie while I lie here. Maybe she can join me in meditating.

Inhale, exhale.

I gently pat a spot on the bed next to me. Maddie doesn’t need much encouragement.

She rises from the foot of the bed, stretches, and crashes down next to me. We are shoulder to shoulder.

I reach over and let my hand rest on her torso. That is our leash for now.

I pet her slowly and gently for a few minutes. Then I just leave my hand resting on her.

Inhale, exhale. Clouds moving away from the sun.

I feel Maddie relax, hear her sigh.

I feel myself relax. My exhales become longer and deeper. I can feel my body melting.

When I finally sit up, I glance at the clock. We’ve been lying there for a half hour, connected by my hand.

I know I didn’t fall asleep, but I can’t say for certain I was meditating. I do know Maddie and I were both totally relaxed and very much living in the now.

I can’t wait to do it tomorrow.

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The Zen of Dogs

I am sitting in class.

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It’s my second week of a course in Buddhism.

I don’t know much about Buddhism, and this class is more of an intellectual exercise than anything else.

The little I’ve read about it, I like.

It makes sense to me — as a philosophy. And those little Zen gardens, I mean … c’mon. Who can resist?

So I’m sitting in class listening to our wonderful  instructor, Tom, talk about the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism.

He tells us, right from the start, that we will be experiencing Buddhism from the outside and the inside. The outside is the intellectual or academic substance of it. Who was Buddha? What did he teach? The inside is the meditation component, which Tom says we’ll get into in a couple of weeks.

Anyway, the first Noble Truth is Dukkha, which roughly translates into sorrow or discontent.

Our lives are Dukkha, says Tom. Full of dissatisfaction and stress.

“We wake up in the morning, tired from a bad night’s sleep,” Tom says. “We take a shower and realize we’re out of soap. There’s traffic on the way to work. Our boss is in a bad mood. And on it goes.”

What lifts us out of this sorrowful state, says Tom, is meditation. Through it, we learn to let go and simply be. We learn the “real” reality.

I raise my hand after a bit.

“You’re saying that we all live in a state of Dukkha or sorrow, and that’s unavoidable, right?” I ask.

Tom nods.

His movements are slow and he is a very quiet person — perfect for teaching a class about Buddhism. Sometimes his response to a question is not really a response at all, but a meandering into five different directions. In any other setting, that might annoy me. Here, it seems to fit.

“But I’m wondering something,” I go on. “I’ve tried to construct my life these last few years so there is less discontent. For instance: Every morning, I set my alarm very early and walk to a park with my dog. There is definitely ‘chatter’ that tries to fill my head–”

“Good choice of word,” Tom says with a gentle smile. “Chatter.”

I nod and continue. “I have to work to push the chatter out of my head. I pull myself away from it, and focus instead on the honking of the geese, the smell of the air, the colors of the sky as the sun rises, the soft dampness of the grass, the balanced sensation of being in sync with my dog as we make our way through the park.”

I take a breath and keep going. “I am aware of all these things, and I feel content. And it’s a contentment that lasts all through the day.”

Tom looks at me expectantly.

“But I’m not meditating,” I conclude.

I look at him expectantly.

Tom leans toward me.

He smiles into my eyes for a long minute.

“You’re not calling it meditating,” he says.

I lean back in my chair.

Hmm.

I like that.

I really like that.

I’ve written a lot  here about my early morning walks with my dog. I’ve always known that while I say they’re for her — as a way of using up some of her infinite energy and distracting her from being a “bad dog” — they’re very much for me, too.

But I never thought of them as a kind of meditation — yet as soon as Tom says that, I know he’s right.

I love new ways of thinking of things.

Tom’s given me that today.

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