I’ve been walking Sophie around our apartment complex now for almost five years. I try to mix it up—north for our morning walk, south for our afternoon walk, and a little of both for our evening walk—but it’s still the same north and south walks. Each time we go out, Sophie starts exploring with her nose hard on the ground. Snuffling and sniffing like it’s the very first time she’s ever snuffled or sniffed that part of the ground when it was only a few hours earlier that she encountered it. Just like Sunny, whose story appears in Tails of Recovery, Sophie is all about being “present-centered.” Every walk is like the first time. Every stray crumpled wrapper, every crushed paper cup, every item that looks like a possible morsel of food, every yellowed patch of grass gets the once-over by Sophie. As I watch her enthusiastic exploring, I find myself wishing I could be as excited about each step I take.
But the monotony of life always gets in my way. I get up each morning, make coffee, search the Internet while I drink my coffee, take a shower, get dressed, head to work, clock in, log on to my work computer, start my work day, end my work day, and clock out. Most days it’s almost like I’m on autopilot. Sometimes when I’m walking Sophie, I allow myself the luxury of being in the moment, savoring our little excursion. I want to hold onto that joy, that “present-centeredness,” which, invariably, slips away.
Why does it take some sort of tragedy, whether direct or indirect, to get me into an “attitude of gratitude”? An earthquake on another continent, a hurricane in my hometown, a friend living with cancer, or the death of my beloved grandmother . . . . I want to hold onto the joy of the moment, the carpe diem of life, the “just for today” ideals. How can something so seemingly lowly as sniffing the ground be so profoundly spiritual? It’s elegant in its simplicity. I’d really like to try it, but I know my middle-aged knees would protest. Instead, I’ll take a deep breath, exhale, and smile at my computer screen while saying “thanks.”
