Dogs and children and spirituality

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Dogs, Children, and Spirituality

I sit in my chair at dusk. Out the window I see a creature moving in the yard. It moves silently, soundless. It can see in the dark better than me; hear fifty times better than me; can smell hundreds of times better; is more observant of body language; cleaner in conscience, and braver. Yet I consider myself the superior creature to this, my dog.

People speak in clichés about what we can learn from dogs: to play, to appreciate the moment, to be grateful for how much they love us unconditionally. That’s all true. But those weren’t the lessons Thunderstorm was sent to teach me. There were other messages, other lessons, in store for me with the edgy, smart, and powerful German Shepherd Dog I loved on sight.

I came to him and he to me, in a spontaneous attraction of spirit and love. Never did I sit down and set having this dog as a goal. He came into my life and when I saw him I loved him and I made a decision to open my life to him without much thought. There was no difficulty in making the decision, it was obvious—even though I had no idea where it was taking me, and did not predict accurately at all what road I was going to be on, and paid a significant price for the decision.

His priorities weren’t mine. He never cared or even noticed the things that bothered me—that my haircut looks bad, that I was embarrassed in the work meeting today, that the pretty girl at church ignores me. He cares instead that my purpose is clear, my heart at peace, that I take a break to play. Without those things, he grows restless, like a gathering hurricane, until I realize the spirit never spoke so clearly, and I calm that spirit by opening my heart to truth, by playing with gusto, by breathing sunshine, by knowing my own will. He rests then, his own mind seemingly restored by my presence to myself and him.

He pays attention like no one I ever met. In a visual and olfactory close up world, he sees every movement I make, so he seems to read my mind, because I cannot have a thought, but I reveal in some small movement of body angle, attitude of head, pace of breathing, change in heart rate—changing the tiny invisible perspiration on my skin--that I have had the thought. He knows when I break my usual habits around the kitchen that I am not cooking dinner at home tonight. He notices the angle of my body when I hand him a toy and positions himself at that angle next time he wants the toy, though I was not even aware. He reads in my physical movement a constant stream of communication, most of which I am unaware I am communicating. The idea that I have disembodied thoughts is proven false—for he sees the thought of action pass through my body before the action takes place, even though most people would see no movement and no warning in me. And he tells me constantly everything he thinks and feels and knows, communicating me continuously and openly: through how he moves his tail, his head, his paws, his ears. Whatever he smells or hears, he indicates to me with a gesture, look, or sound. But I miss most of it. I am deaf and blind, and unable to notice or detect all the vast information he sends me every minute on a simple walk. He must find me exasperating, or so I think when he lets out that long loud sigh.

He learns continuously. He notices everything and enters it into his repository of experiences. Nothing that happens is neutral. Everything that happens teaches him about the world. Would you think a child less capable than this?

No of course: the child is also learning in every instant. Are you aware of what you are teaching? Probably not. So, strive, to become a little more aware, for no action comes for free—every event carries a lesson, added to the beliefs and memories and symbols in the mind of the child. The dog proves this every day—for if the dog can learn from every encounter, then so can the child. The dog learns everything that happens, not merely those things I thought I was conveying. Likewise the child, who learns from all I do, and not only what I say. The dog learns almost nothing from what I say, and almost everything from what I do. The child is probably the same way.

This is not to say that dogs and children can always be taught in the same way. Some things are similar. Both dogs and children learn from every interaction, and both need totally consistent and manifestly fair rules and plenty of exercise and plenty of love in order to thrive and grow and mature. Both react well to calm authority and badly to madness and chaos. Both mirror your emotions, and show joy and peace when you have joy, and when you are stressed they show distress and demand attention and require reassurance (maddeningly perhaps). Both can be abused and traumatized and made to act in some crazy manner thereby, in misery. Both can be partially healed by sufficient time and love.

But there are differences in how you work with a dog or a child. Unlike the child, the dog is an adult animal, fighting for position, defending territory, driven by instinct. It is not a puppy anymore, not a child. Unlike the dog, the child makes a mental symbol and attaches a meaning, and based on that mental model, anticipates events far ahead of time, and remembers events long ago. Thus what you say to the child does matter, and explaining the future and the past to a child is important.

For example, with the child, humor is a powerful tool; with the dog it is useless. With the dog, systematic physical correction is useful information, but with the child it is usually worse than useless. For the dog, a physical treat like a toy or a piece of food is a powerful communication. With the child such manipulations soon become meaningless. With the child, a sign of respect or patience may pay huge dividends, but for the dog this is much less the point, even though the dog also appreciates and repays respect and patience so long as respect is not confused with weakness or fear.

The child, unlike the dog, attributes motives to behavior based on what she is taught, and may therefore assume the opposite of what you intended, if he has been taught that way before. So, making words and actions and tone of voice all true to one another is very important for the child, whereas the dog pays attention only to the actions and the tone of voice and otherwise allows you to talk nonsense all day long with no objection. Therefore only with difficulty can you deceive the dog as to your intentions, and then only temporarily, but you can deceive the child, for the child has language and will believe the words you say when you insist on them, despite you actions. The child may believe a false meaning in an action, and therefore grow lost and unable to accurately judge reality.

Do not do this. Do not deceive the child, for the costs will be born forever. The child needs to live in the reality of existence, just as the dog does. Give the child a safe and trustworthy reality, not a false pretense of same. For though you can lie to the child about the immediate event, you cannot easily lie about your heart. Here the dog and the child share a true instinct. So, make your heart true for both dog and child. Both dog and child will forgive a thousand mistakes from a true hearted master or parent, and return with full loyalty, but neither can long endure a false heart in their authority figure, without losing their own sanity.

As for my dog and the Spirit of God, Thunderstorm’s presence to me is the same exact presence I see in the Milky Way. I can gaze outward from a mountaintop, from the deck of spaceship earth--as we hurtle through the vastness of our own galaxy—toward the center of that galaxy: the most amazing front seat view imaginable, into the mind of God alone. Then I can sit looking at that dog, unselfconscious and unable to sin, true to itself in every instant, and realize the same spirit is present, the Spirit of the created world, speaking to me, if I will but listen. For this too is a Creature of that great Spirit. Let’s be still. In the eyes of the dog or in the soul of the Milky Way, the same creator spirit rests, watching with the same thoughtless total presence that invites me to complete stillness and joy, as well as to complete and total action without reservation.

When I see how completely Storm is present to me, I realize he represents in physical form the invisible God, who accompanies me everywhere. God, just like Storm, wills me to presence, joy, and offers energetic protection and companionship. I am not alone. I am accompanied at all times, by this being who will never leave my side so long as he has any choice in the matter. I can leave him, but he will never leave me. He will stand by me to the end. And he is always there. And so Storm is a sign, a sign of a Presence, total dedication, hidden in all things.

And at the same time, in Storm’s total dedication to carrying out my will, I see a mirror of that attitude I wish to have to God. I would be as devoted to pleasing God, as Storm is to pleasing me. He will do whatever I say, no matter how illogical it appears to him, because he cares not whether I know what I am doing, but only that he is doing what I will. For he trusts me with his very life, and would trust me even if I were to slay him, and will without question enter a situation in which he will die if I abandon him, and despite his power he will leave himself helpless if I so command, without question. And indeed my dog has no prospect of grasping my reasoning, which is so far beyond his that he cannot even imagine it.

So with God, I would learn not to be concerned about whether God’s will is “sensible” or “smart” or “intelligible” but only, that I am carrying out that will. And so long as I do that will, I am complete, just as Storm feels complete if he can be in my presence and do my will. And in doing my will, the dog fears nothing and will face a charging elephant without fear, so long as he pleases me. So he models for me how to be a real disciple, living without fear save one thing: fear of not doing my love’s will, or even my master’s will. God is my true love and my true master, my inmost truth, my ultimate spirit, the one whom, if I can but obey, I will see to the final purpose of my existence. I would trust Him even though He slay me, for he would so only to a higher purpose that He knows, and which I would trust were I who I aim to be.

I long ago thought I knew something about love. I tasted love many times, in many ways. Yet I also knew a broken heart and the loss of will or hope, and the requirement to somehow begin again. There were many reasons, and many lessons, in those hard stories, complex, deep, and many sided. I grew up in many ways through the pain of those memories. But there was one lesson I could not learn myself. As a man, although I knew how to have courage in danger, I did not know how to set myself aside every day for another. I did not know how to put another first. I perceived the daily needs of the other as selfish and threatening. I could love, but only on my terms and if I felt sufficiently safe and secure.

Storm has taught me how to set myself aside daily. I get it now. This is not a matter of courage but of a way of life. I set myself aside for him, because I must: his life depends on me taking care, getting him food and water. He has placed himself or been placed in my care, and yet he is innocent in this matter. And so, I cannot but care for him, though it means setting myself aside, and placing all other priorities below his need for life and health. I must go home and take care of him at the time he is counting on me, no matter what work is undone or what woman or man may be disappointed or what other pleasure or task I cannot do. This is not a hard choice. This is a natural choice, an obvious choice, a simple and obvious action. This I now understand. It is a psychological movement I did not know before and now I do. I used to think it was this thing one tried to remember to do. Now I see it is something one simply knows to do. The obvious priority of care dictates it. That is one definition of maturity, or perhaps one piece of it. It is fundamental to loving and even to living a human, moral, and spiritual life.

Such self abandonment is often presented as though there is some kind of heroism in it. There is not. It is not a heroic self sacrifice that we carry out for those given into our care, it is simply the act of setting ourselves aside because we must do so in order to be human in this situation. Yet this is one of the hardest things to grasp when we first learn to love matter-of-factly (without the drama and self-absorption and neediness and other nonsense that our society confuses with love), which for many of us may well be in middle or late life.

From this perspective, Christ’s sacrifice on the cross was not heroic! The hero story is quite different than the Jesus story. This is also why people who run in and help people at car accidents or fires do not consider themselves heroes. The hero we see on television makes a deliberate and brave decision to go out and risk all for glory and to win the great prize. Christ set himself aside for the sake of those given into his care, because He could not do otherwise and still be true to Himself. He did not self consciously decide to make a sacrifice. He did not desire or even consider obtaining glory or admiration. It would be as silly for him to seek glory dying for his friends as for me to seek glory in leaving my work undone in order to get water for my thirsty dog. Christ simply set himself aside to do what was obvious to him. He saw that the lives and yes the very souls of those in his care depended on this. He knew only that priority of caring for them.

In the same way, when we look at the bystander who risks her life to save a child without thinking, we do her injustice to call her a hero. She is really a human being alive to the ability to set herself aside without a second thought. A hero is self conscious, whereas a fully alive lover is not. Perhaps the lover is what we mean by the hero but I would rather not admire the hero; instead I would rather emulate the lover. For wanting to be a hero is to desire admiration and glory—feelings properly directed only at God, not at one another. Thus it is an anti-love desire, an out of balance, untrue desire. Hero-desire is the enchantment of a mirage.

Therefore when we see acts we call heroic, let us examine: was this a self conscious act of seeking admiration? If so, we’d best ignore it and turn our glorifying impulses toward God. Or was it a spontaneous setting aside of self? If the latter (which is usually the case in everyday life), let us not waste our time or risk their soul in glorifying them. Let us thank them for doing simply what a human being ought to do, and then let us go out and do the same thing they did, this very day and every day, living in simple love toward those given into our care—even the stranger set into our care in the midst of  a sudden event.

There is a final piece of this spirituality of dog-care that is mysterious, and that is the dangerousness of a German Shepherd dog. People are frightened of him, when they see his speed, power, quickness, and his teeth and growl. He uses this threat to protect me. He does not know the meaning of the word “polite” as we use it. He is a completely gentle and peaceful soul, capable of total violence. There is something true in this, something of me, something of what I have buried in myself. And something of God. Something of Nature.

How can I be gentle without being dangerous? These are part of the same freedom and cannot be separated. This society wants a man to be kind and gentle and never really dangerous, not to really have cajunas. Or else it may like me to be dangerous and crazy as a kind of entertainment, as an action hero, but then you really can’t be welcome at dinner. It is all really bullshit. The reality is that there is an animal alive in me, with no will to violence (today), but with a yearning to let the wild power of my soul live. He lives that without thinking about it, and reminds me what real gentleness means.

This is what watching the dog closely and getting to know him, begins to teach me. These are the beginnings of the lessons he was sent to teach me, when I was no longer interested in being taught.