the everyday yoga of dog training

Ten years. The entire decade of my forties. That's how long I devoted myself to yoga, starting with one class a week, then two, then three, then five. Retreats. Workshops. I loved the practice aspect of it, the relationship built with myself and others -- the way, after just continually, devotedly, repeating the same motions, change happened. What once seemed impossible, became possible or at least less impossible. Sure, after ten years, still I couldn't stick a handstand in the middle of the room without a wall or hands behind me, but I could kick up reliably, bear the weight of my body, happily, on my own two hands.

I haven't been on my mat in ages now. Not so much because I turned 50 and the decade of my devotion is over. That's not why, though the idea interests me a great deal. Yes, there was the long painful injury and the surgery and the longer recovery. That's true. But that's not really the story.

The truth is that a puppy became my practice.

When I began yoga in 2003, our Jasper was 6 years old, well past his puppyhood, settled into his adult form. I alternated yoga days with hike days, so that he still got his accustomed off-leash woods-running, as did I, with flat-land walks on the days I went to class. As he aged and needed or wanted less exercise, so my weekly hours at yoga increased. I replaced the time I'd spent with him in the hills, with time on the mat. He didn't need me as much. It worked.

When Jasper died in 2011, I was heart-broken. Looking back on that time now, two things are clear to me: yoga helped me through it, and I probably could have used a different professional intervention. Truly, I was depressed. For months. Seriously. Like I'd ask myself what's the point even of getting out of bed in the morning? The absence of Jasper was an all-over aching devastation that darkened my entire world. I had never been so sad in all my life.

Practicing then helped, but it was also in that period -- something else which interests me -- that I injured myself. The pain started out small, but I kept going, clinging to the yoga as a constant, ignoring the limitation making itself felt, first gently, then with steady roar.

I kept on, but maybe I should have stopped absolutely everything and mourned. Time passed. My heart began to heal. I could get through a day without weeping for my dog. But my back got worse.

Six months after losing Jasper, I met Mr Burns and the sun began to shine again. I had gone to a local pet fair, as part of what I called my therapy, a need to be around dogs and dog-people again. I spent a couple of hours wandering, crying sometimes, petting a lot of dogs and smiling a lot. I wasn't sure I'd find a new someone to love, but I felt ready to. That seemed like progress. And wandering, wandering, behind a table in a little pen, not on display really, I spied my next canine love, the adorable, 4-month-old Burnsy.

And just like that, the old yoga became the new yoga.  I traded down-dog                         for real dog.

For a while, I tried to keep up the old routine. But all I wanted was to be home, with Burns. And my back was killing me honestly, something which was eventually resolved only through surgery, 6 weeks off work, time, time and more time.

Now that I'm better, healed up, I realize that I don't want the other yoga anymore, the one that satisfied me, filled me up, for so long. I keep thinking I'll go back, but I don't want to give it the time away from home, the drive there, the drive back, none of it.

And plus, honestly, dog training feels like all the yoga I need right now.

This occurred to me because suddenly, the other day, while walking with Burns, I said, Sit, and he sat.  I said, Stay, and he stayed. I dropped the leash and walked away from him. With my back to him, I walked to the little trash bin, took my time. I turned around and walked back to him, repeating Stay as I got closer. He wagged the very tip of his tail, eyes locked on mine.  And didn't move. When I reached him, I said Down, and down he went, elbows into the ground, eyes on me.  

This may seem like nothing, but I assure you that it's deep yoga, the fruit of devoted daily practice, a transformation that seemed impossible 6 months ago.

Sure, I'm no closer to sticking that handstand, and I'm sorry to see go the upper body strength earned from hours of using my front limbs like legs. 

But I tell you what, I don't mind. This yoga that I'm doing now feels so much better, feels so true and satisfying and worthy.  And the real dog gives me so much love and so much play and so many lessons. So I'll just keep at it, this practice with Burnsy, my new teacher.

We're Sitting. We're Staying. We're Down.

XX

Comments

[Nancy]

I am neither a dog person or a yoga person but I love your sentiment here, your reflective repose. Makes total sense to me.

[Sheri]

LOVE this! You're writing like a ... Youknowwhat!