Walks With Stella

I've begun to take walks with a dog named Stella. We get together in the evenings after my work day has ended or in the mornings before my work day has begun. We run for a good while, reveling in the power of our bodies to propel us forward, without caring about where we are going. Stella's sheer exuberance for running makes me laugh so hard that I have to ask her to slow down. My body has been subjected to a lethargy that it has found most disagreeable. Despite this new effort to move my body, it needs time to adjust to activity.

Still, Stella breaks into a run when I'm not looking. Laughing, I follow.

Tracing the scent of some unknown creature, Stella leads me through labyrinths of trees and trails. I observe her process of exploration and suddenly, as if by osmosis, I find myself fully aware of this moment. I have shifted remarkably from the automatic and habitual drone-like existence into a living, breathing moment. And I am an explorer. Removed from time and worldly thoughts. Focused on breathing. On the air against my face.

In a world without the sound of thought, I am see ice forming on delicate branches from whatever form of precipitation is currently falling combined with the cold. Delightful, bitter cold.

What's happened to me?

Historically, December is a difficult month for me. I usually spend it in a state of anger and frustration. I usually feel an antagonistic rift between my own rhythm and the rhythm of the world around me. And this rift is so intense and so difficult for me to reconcile, that I end up feeling incredibly depressed.

I am Charlie Brown, standing in the spotlight on the stage of an empty auditorium exclaiming my perplexity at consumerism.

But something has happened in my walks with Stella. I no longer care about the rift between my own rhythm and that of the world. I no longer care about anything other than this moment and all the magic that is wrapped up in it.

Stella and I happened upon a covey of crows. Stella stopped in her tracks and simply stood there watching these fabulous creatures. Mysterious black beings that seem to have a secret knowledge. And they seem to enjoy knowing that their wisdom is theirs and theirs alone. I find myself wishing to know what it is to be a crow.