Writing Through Cancer

Silence is a great source of strength.  – Lao Tzu

I didn’t intend for her to lead me into a practice of morning meditation.  Maggie, my adopted Border Terrier, must have sensed what I needed at this stage of my life.  Over-committed with teaching, the press of deadlines, a list of “must dos” that seemed to grow exponentially, even my leisure activities—drumming, T’ai Chi– seemed to be adding more fatigue than pleasure.  I felt, at times, like that unhappy corporate executive I’d been so many years ago, stressed and agitated, running too fast to know how to slow down, even though the work I now do is truly satisfying, unlike the years of corporate life.

Enter Maggie.  Found in the brush with three puppies, scrawny and malnourished, her coat scruffy and untamed, she was an unlikely candidate for me to consider adopting.  To be honest, my heart sank when I first saw her in person.  I’d responded to her photograph,  advertised on a local dog rescue site.  But ever dutiful, I agreed to take a closer look.  I picked her up from the cage as she trembled with fear.  I stroked her fur and held her against my chest.  Within moments, she quieted, turned two big coal eyes to my face and quietly lay her head on my shoulder.  She needs me, I thought.  I agreed to take her home and paid the adoption fee.  That was last June, 2014.

“It’s love, they say.  You touch

the right one and a whole half of the universe

wakes up, a new half.

(William Stafford, “Choosing a Dog,” From: The Way It Is, 1998)

There’s little doubt that Maggie needed a loving home, but looking back on the past many months, I think that Maggie was quick to see that I needed her.  Our morning walks quickly established themselves as daily routine.  Up at six a.m., I’d grind the coffee beans and fill her dog dishes with kibble and water.  While she ate, I stretched and warmed up, all, I figured, in an effort to establish a fitter self.  Once warmed up, the leash attached to her collar, the two of us set out as the eastern horizon became streaked with lilacs and pinks, the sun lazily rising above the far off mountains.  Thirty minutes later, we returned, the day uncluttered by the noises of civilization, where we began to sit together on the deck after our walk.  I had my coffee; Maggie claimed my lap.  We sat in silence for another half hour or more—a departure from a years-long routine of having coffee while listening to the news on NPR.

Something happened in the process.  The quiet of our early mornings became a ritual—a walking meditation, followed by a practice of sitting in silence, Maggie curled in my lap, and  I began paying attention to the cast of sunlight on the trees, the hummingbirds’ frolic at the fountain,  a red-tail hawk gliding just feet from the edge of the deck, and the chorus of birdsong.  Each morning brought a poem with it, like a gift delivered on the breeze.

Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, “Here, take it, it’s yours.”

(William Stafford, “The Gift,” From: My Name is William Tell, 1992)

There are many research studies that support the health and therapeutic benefits of having a pet.  Research has demonstrated that animals can improve human cardiovascular health, reduce stress, decrease loneliness and depression, and facilitate social interactions among people. In fact, some years ago, our Westie, Winston, was a trained therapy pet, accompanying my husband to hospitals and nursing homes, where his willingness to curl up with patients and elders for a little TLC brought smiles to more than a few individuals.

Maggie has been good for my health—I suffered from heart failure a few years ago, and the daily exercise I get in our morning and afternoon walks has clear physical benefits.  But she’s been a little canine spiritual guide for me too.  Learning to sit in silence, begin my day with the natural beauty just outside my door instead of daily reports of war, racism and violence, has fed not only my soul, but my creativity.  In our rush-rush, technology-dependent world, silence and solitude, once so normal in the human experience, are replaced by a constant thrum of noise and social communication.  Silence reintroduces us to ourselves, to awareness of the present; there’s even evidence that combining solitude with a walk in nature increases our brain growth and functioning.

Maybe Maggie is, after all, a muse and a spiritual guide, leading me gently but persistently, back to the peace and quiet joy found in early morning, my eyes and heart opened and ready to receive the gifts that the world offers each day.

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers,

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

(Wendell Berry, “How to Be A Poet,” From:  Given, 2005)

This week, sit in silence for a period of time, either outdoors or near a window, where you can observe what’s outside.  Try this for 15 to 30 minutes.  Try to empty your mind and simply be present to what is happening around you.  Notice.  Once you’ve done this, write, describing what you observed.  Let the observation lead you into more writing.