My dogs were young and spirited. I was whole-heartedly committed to them. I loved to watch them run playfully in the woods, full speed, narrowly dodging the trees interwoven along their intuitive path. I loved to care for them and snuggle and live in the joy of their affectionate dogness.
And I was responsible for them. Impulsive, instinctual, unpredictable, energetic meets busy roads, lost in the woods, oblivious to my calls. Carefree and dangerous.
I engaged with trainers, videos, books, The Dog Whisperer… I worked seriously to provide both positive training and authoritative commands. Still, at any time the moment—or perhaps a scented breeze—might capture them and off they’d go, gleefully responding to some inner desire and freedom.
One day, hoping that the beautifully large backyard of my rented apartment—bordered by the Stoney Clove Creek and the rise of the Catskill Mountains beyond—might just be enough for them.
Eh, no! Off they went, Mya characteristically in the lead with Boonie at her tail, speedily meeting the water’s edge and veering sharply left towards my neighbor’s yard and a winding, fast-driven road just beyond.
Let me interrupt this scene with what I discovered about life with dogs that doesn’t help, as the day-in-day-out has everything to do with how to respond to these moments of spontaneous recklessness: overindulgent, laissez-faire or strict parenting; projecting my own need to care for and therefore be deserving of love and respect; reacting out of fear, anger, embarrassment, helplessness; being swept away by the loss of control and the resulting tightening need to regain dominance; giving up.
Their actions are always and forever on me. I am fully responsible for behaviors I often have no direct control over—unless I continuously tether them, killing their spirit through a denial of their own free will. Doesn’t seem fair but there it is.
Back to the wild ones.
As I stood watching them flying out of sight, I instantly dropped deep into my gut—perhaps deep enough to reach the stars. From there, I screamed, “NOOOO!”
They turned on a dime! I’m not sure there was even a beat between our realities. It felt like they knew instinctively that that “No!” was 100%. It filled the universe. Not me. Not them. An us that was in concert, like sounds that, once brought together, can never be separate.
When I regard Tarot’s Strength card, particularly the image offered by Pamela Coleman Smith, I see it speaking to this experience. The woman and lion peacefully moving as one. Perhaps the moment before was filled with a push-pull that couldn’t be ignored… in the next, the tension magically dissolves without a trace.
Whether it’s playful dogs or my own primitive, unruly desires, true strength never emerges when I try to exert power over another’s will—including my own archetypal Animal Nature. It fails to manifest when I disengage or run away. It does require skill, practice, patience, time, commitment. Then, slowly, imperceptibly, strength settles into a flexible, attentive confidence, without knowing or needing to know what will happen.
The inner or outer lion does not overwhelm and does not submit. Does not lead or follow but naturally, willingly moves in sync with the whole.
As in Gestalt, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and the unfathomable mystery is everything!
Until next time…