Dogma

Someone asked me if I go to church and I do not, unless you count the pew that is my dog Gilligan, where several times a day I must show up and be present, even though I’m very busy with my own lofty concerns, and often resent the stinky interruption. He’s no saint, but he’s still one of the best spiritual teachers I’ve ever had. At this very moment he’s curled and farting by my side (teaching me tolerance, I’m sure), but throughout the day, regular as a monks chant, he’ll let me know in no uncertain terms that he requires my full, undivided attention. He’s always reminding me of what exists outside my own head, in the great wide world of birds and love.

And while I often search for places to experience the glory of the world beyond my puny human boundaries, I did not expect to find it in this noisy, snorting animal. I did not expect to find myself expanded, challenged, lifted, humbled and saved by this round-bellied bat-clown of a dog. For that matter, I did not expect a dog.

He arrived as I imagine many of our spiritual gifts do; not by education, donation, tithe, pilgrimage, angel, tradition, or conversion; nor by beseeching the great breeder in the sky on bended knee. He arrived because I invited him. From the very first day I met him he looked me straight in the eye and said “choose, it’s up to you.” And so I did. And so it was.
Now, WHY I chose to let him in my life, I often wonder. As a writer I crave wide, empty swaths of time — massive volumes of uninterrupted, absolute silence. I’m also not particularly “a dog person”. Cats are more my style, as they tend to be happy hanging out with the dirty dishes until the time has come for a nod in their general direction. One can’t help but wonder if there is such a thing as divine intervention, and I suppose you could say there is – as my daughter is the most divine being I know, and she definitely intervened in the arrival of this dog in my life.

But in any event, he’s here. And as all spiritual teachers know, the journey begins with commitment, but must be followed by discipline. If I ignore either, I suffer – along with my carpet, the occasional roll of toilet paper, and my shoes. And like all spiritual relationships, you can’t just phone it in. Gilligan knows exactly when I’m tossing the ball impatiently, just calling myself a member of global church of dog ownership, and when I’m seriously devout in a starting a rousing chorus of catch and come here. He knows when I am walking with intention, and when I’m shuffling absently through the motions. Either way, he does his part. It’s up to me to do mine. And every time I do, our bond strengthens.

What makes him the most terrific spiritual guide is that he is a reflection of the best and worst of my own humanity. When I find myself resenting him, along with all the vet bills, nail clipping, silly interruptions, endless care taking, and inconvenient walking – (and not just on icy Christmas days or muddy Easters, mind you!) — I’ll find his eyes following me, begging for resolution. He quietly demands that we move forward and not get stuck in the gloom. He reminds me to surrender and stop resisting. To open the next few moments to possibility, and drop the surety of self. He forgives instantly, and I learn slowly. But together, we are finding our way.

Of all the things I’ve learned from him, being present is the greatest. Of all the gifts he’s given me, love is the finest. And what we’ve learned together is that showing up and saying yes – choosing – is the start of every holy thing that ever was.