Category Archives: Impermanence

August Break: Day 25

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On our walk this morning, Dexter reverse sneezed. He saw another dog and got excited, then a while later, did another. There was no blood, and it had been almost a week without him doing it at all, but it still made me sad, shaky, scared.

The stories we tell ourselves about what’s happening are so powerful. If I had some kind of certainty that Dexter “just” had allergies, that he would do the reverse sneezing with the occasional bloody nose but that’s all it would ever be, I might view such an episode as “no big deal.” If I knew for sure he had cancer, that this was the beginning of the end, the best it would ever be, that our time together was going to be short and some of it would be really, really hard, I’d have a completely different experience of it.

But certainty, a definitive answer, a concrete diagnosis most likely won’t come (until/unless he gets worse, has other symptoms), so for now, I am trying to not let the story get in the way of the moment we are in, the one where we are still together.

And yet, I swing wildly between both extremes. Part of why I was so upset by the reverse sneeze this morning is because it had been enough days without that I started to hope, to think that maybe he really would get better, that things would work out okay. Yesterday, he ran a little on his morning walk, sniffed whatever he wanted, played and played, took a second walk, and rested comfortably in the moments he was still–breathing clearly and easily through all of it.

But either extreme, hope or fear, is no way to live. Both of them pull you out of the moment you are in, the only place where there’s life, to either promise or threaten you about something that might happen. Both of them rob you of this moment, the only thing that is real.

Living in this in-between is so uncomfortable. And yet, the opportunity to practice is there, making me stronger, getting me closer to being able to comfortably cope with whatever arises, to stay with what’s happening, to keep my heart open, to not run away or numb out or resist. When my chest tightens and the tears come, when the voice inside my head chants “I’m so tired, I can’t do this” over and over, all I can do is try to stay present, to relax, to surrender.

After our walk this morning, Dexter “asked” to go pick tomatoes. This is one of his favorite things. He tries to pick them himself, as evidenced by the collection of smashed green tomatoes scattered on the ground and his head that smells like tomato blossoms. This morning, he made sure I was coming with a bowl, and then ran out to the raised bed, put his front feet up and stood on the edge, burying his head in the bushes. Then he looked back at me and wagged his tail, nudging my hand with his nose when I got closer.

Later, when I was petting him, he put his foot on my arm, curling his toes, pressing them against me in his version of petting back. It was that same foot, the one with my favorite toe, the one with the black spot. He closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing but not letting go.

Every one of my dogs has taught me something different, but the one thing they will all eventually do is show me how to let go, practice non-attachment, allow me to once again experience the reality of impermanence. I will never be ready, it will never be okay, no matter how or when it happens. This is a lesson I will keep learning, a practice that will continue with every one I love, for as long as I’m still breathing. Every time I open my heart, it will get broken.

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Three Truths and One Wish

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1. Truth: Impermanence. I am currently taking a class at the Fort Collins Shambhala Meditation Center, Fearlessness in Everyday Life. In the first few weeks we have been contemplating what many great teachers have called the essence of the dharma (“truth”): that everything changes, nothing stays the same–also known as impermanence.

I couldn’t attend Thursday night’s class because I was doing an independent study of sorts, saying goodbye to a being I love very much, being with him when he went, contemplating and being with the reality that death and change are real and reliable. Death and loss will happen, we can count on it.

obi and rocky, both gone now

We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. ~Pema Chödrön

2. Truth: Being with reality–what is, as it is–is freedom. In the ways that we reject what we don’t want or attempt to cling to what we do, judging and refusing that which is “bad” and attempting to make the “good” somehow permanent, we generate pain. Our refusal to be with things as they are is at the root of all our suffering. In our denial and in our attachment, we cause harm. Our avoidance, our habitual, stuck, discursive ways of covering over the truth keep us stuck, confused and afraid.

There’s a Robin that’s been on the fence between my house and my neighbor’s for the past few days. It runs up and down the fence, intermittently throwing itself at its own reflection in a window. At first, I assumed the bird viewed the other bird as a threat, and chose to fight it. Then I remembered it’s their mating season, and thought maybe the bird thought its own reflection was a possible mate. Either way, whether the bird was showing aggression or attempting to connect, its fundamental confusion caused it to throw itself at the window repeatedly, to cause harm and generate frustration and pain, potentially smashing itself to bits. Even when my neighbor opened her window so it could no longer see its reflection, it shifted its focus to a window on the side of my house, continuing the process.

have courage, little bird

The most fundamental aggression to ourselves, the most fundamental harm we can do to ourselves, is to remain ignorant by not having the courage and the respect to look at ourselves honestly and gently. ~Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

3. Truth: The antidote, the medicine is gentleness. Being with things as they are and not as we want them to be provokes fear. The inevitable nature of loss and change and death can cause us to come unhinged, unravelled, wrecked and broken. “Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth,” (Pema Chödrön). Being with reality and our fear uncovers things we usually avoid, reject, or hide. The way to deal with this, to work with fear, is by being friendly with ourselves, being gentle. This is non-aggression. This is truth. This is the way to freedom.

One wish: That you have supreme confidence in the one and only thing that won’t change, your fundamental, basic, inherent, innate, unconditional goodness, your wisdom and compassion, that you remember and awaken to this, the light of your true nature.