My dog does not know what day it is. She does not know what I do for a living, what I am worried about, or what I said to someone last Tuesday that I wish I could take back.
She knows I am here. That is the whole of it for her.
We walked this morning in the kind of quiet that only exists before the city fully wakes up. She stopped four times to investigate things I could not see or smell. Each time, she was completely absorbed — no past, no future, just the extraordinary information contained in a patch of grass.
I have been thinking about what it would mean to bring that quality of attention to the people in my life. Not the distracted, half-present attention I usually offer while also thinking about something else. The full kind. The Evie kind.
She is not a metaphor. She is just a dog who loves me without conditions or history. But she teaches me something every morning about what it means to actually arrive somewhere.
“She does not know what I am worried about. She knows I am here. That is the whole of it for her.”
A question for you
When was the last time you were fully present with someone — not thinking about anything else, just there?
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