During my teen years our family lived in the hills southeast of Bloomington, Indiana. Our house had a panoramic view of the “Slow Side” of Lake Monroe. I loved to take our German Shepherds on lllooonnnggg walks through the forest, up and down those hills. Greta, a silver-and-black beauty, was the smartest dog I have ever known—and the mother of Wolf, my black-and-tan, hundred pound hunk of affection and anxiety. They were utterly trustworthy. I never had to leash either one. Even when we scared up a raccoon the dogs would only bark and make half-hearted rushes. They were protecting me, and I never feared for myself no matter how far from any house we got. Rumor had it bears and big cats had been sighted. I didn't believe it, and I didn't care.
We took those walks year round, except for mid-November to early December. This time of the year the bucks all get on Deer Tinder looking for hook-ups. This in turn brings Hunteri Americanus, a species closely related Homo Sapiens, into the woods. Hunteri Americanus often did not differentiate between deer and actual Canus like Greta and Wolf. It was best not to risk it.
Risk/reward lays heavy on all our minds these days. How best to calibrate shutdowns and social distancing vs. economic and mental health consequences? Do I believe in my conclusions strongly enough to take the risk of expressing them openly? What the heck should we do for Thanksgiving?
One thing about long walks: they give you time to think. If you want to. My wife Linda and I have two dogs. We take them on walks twice a day. When she has gone ninety miles away to care for our daughter's family, I take the dogs by myself. As they have little to say, it does give me time to think.
Here is something I thought this past
Monday morning: I cannot muster the energy to care about the grasping
at power we see in the wake of this election. I
cannot find it in me to get worked up about other people's COVID
decisions, unless they directly threaten the well-being of people I
love. Including me. I could not care less about “owning”
anybody or “winning” an exchange on social media at the cost of
losing a friendship.
When we got back to the house my “girls”, Brianna and Keela, allowed me to decouple their harnesses and pull off their sweaters. They were patient because they knew the next step in the dance: the handing out of treats. They are always so insanely happy with just one. Almost as happy as they get every time I come home from work. They seem to have grasped a teaching of both Jesus and the Eastern mystics: happiness comes not from power but from relationship. May we all find the power to live in that truth.
