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It started with Jake.
He jumped off the office bed while I wasn’t paying attention, let out a small squeal, and began limping.
And just like that, I realized how much I had taken him for granted. How often I’d resented his bossy little alpha routine of “walking me.”
Until he stopped.
Until he didn’t jump up when I reached for the leash.
Until I missed the very things I once found annoying.
Why don’t we notice what we love until it changes?
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how little we notice in general—especially each other.
We’re distracted. Divided. Following different versions of the same story.
And I’m no better. I scroll Instagram and Facebook like everyone else.
What holds me there, though, are the Buddhist monks on their peace walk to Washington—reminding that the way forward is still one quiet step at a time.
They have a dog too—Alok—who had surgery this week for an old knee injury the long journey aggravated. Like Jake, he’s expected to return to walking with his friends soon.
Yesterday, on the boardwalk, I watched swans, geese, and ducks crammed into a small cove, squawking and colliding.
Without Jake, I didn’t veer away from another woman and her dog. Instead, I leaned in and cuddled her wiry-haired love.
We watched the noisy fowl together, and she said, “That’s our country.”
Then we heard the distant boom of hunters.
And that’s when I realized: the birds weren’t together because they were in sync. They were together because it was safer.
At home, the walls of our house are literally coming down. It’s loud, dusty, inconvenient. But the mess is what will give us a healthier, longer life in this house.
And it made me think—the walls coming down between us may be noisy.
Uncomfortable.
Chaotic.
But like those birds, it may be the only thing that saves us.
(Image above by Kevin Ferris).
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