Things are piling up around here. There’s one particular pile on my desk that includes:
- Yoga pose cards, homework for yoga teacher training
- Property tax bill
- New 16 GB SD card that will hold almost 6000 images
- Camera battery charger
- My favorite pair of scissors
- Chocolate and sheets of origami paper from Germany
- Puppy shot records
- Tags from Ringo’s new harness
- Tags, receipt and harness that didn’t work for Ringo and needs to be returned
- Paperwork for puppy kindergarten class
- Microchip info flyer
- Hearing test results (sometimes Cattle Dogs can be deaf, but Ringo’s whole litter has great hearing)
- Beaver’s Market receipt
- Meat processing receipt (we got 1/2 a beef from a friend who raises organic, small herds, of which our dogs get to eat almost 1/2 — spoiled)
- 2013 Tax documents
- Feed and grocery store receipts
- Receipt from Sam’s last visit to the neurologist
- Corral West Australian Cattle Dogs Contract of Sales and Deposit, in which I promise not to sell, give away, or euthanize Ringo without telling Sherry, and if we can’t care for him any longer, she has the right to have him back, to keep or find him a new home, and I agree that “the dog will reside at their home and will be an integral part of the family.”
Not all paths are the same. This morning on our walk, Sam and I traveled one section of trail that was covered in snow and ice. There were slick patches and in other spots it shifted under our feet like we were walking on sand. It took more effort and time to walk this.
It reminded me of something I told Eric last night, about how when this intense puppy phase passes our “normal” lives will seem so easy in comparison. I told him about how I’d sat on the couch eating a big salad for lunch and actually watched some tv, and even though I didn’t get to watch a whole show before Ringo woke up and needed to go out, it seemed like such a luxury. Eric suggested that while that might be true, after you feel normal for awhile you forget to notice that it’s anything special.
It was like that on our walk this morning. After walking the side trail, we landed on a section of cleared paved path, smooth and solid. It felt so easy to walk on it, almost like we were floating, but it didn’t take long before I forgot and it was just walking, the awareness of ease replaced by noticing how cold I felt, how far we still had to go before returning home, how much work I needed to get done today, the worries and concerns and busyness creeping back in, distorting and confusing the previous sense of ease and joy.
I watched myself do this, aware of the suffering I generated. As an antidote, I felt my breath, saw the deep blue flutter of a single Blue Jay, noticed the turning colors of the sky, and felt such deep gratitude for the heart-shaped patch of snow and tiny splash of white fur inbetween Sam’s toes.