You’re like a little wild thing
That was never sent to school.
Sit, I say, and you jump up.
Come, I say, and you go galloping down the sand
To the nearest dead fish
With which you perfume your sweet neck.
It is summer.
How many summers does a little dog have?
Run, run Percy.
This is our school
Puppy mind. I first heard the expression over a year ago at a mindfulness workshop. In the dark, cool room, stretched out on my yoga mat with a blanket cradling my head, I was fading in and out of consciousness as the instructor droned on (in the nicest way possible) about noticing our thoughts and letting them go. What I noticed at the time was that if I didn't listen to him, I didn't have any thoughts to hold onto so I just focused on my breath and let his voice fade into white noise. That worked well until I heard him say, "Puppy mind." I almost bolted upright. Puppy mind? Surely he meant monkey mind, the apt phrase well known to meditators of all sorts. The description of what happens when you decide to sit in silence for ten, twenty, thirty minutes and all hell breaks loose in your brain as your thoughts chatter for attention, go swinging from from trees, and occasionally peel back your defenses to expose your feelings like the soft bruised flesh of an overripe banana.
Although I've heard it a thousand times and used it hundreds, I've never really liked the term monkey mind. Maybe it's because I made the mistake of watching the movie "Monkeyshines" when it came out in the late 80's. Monkey gone bad. Very, very bad. That, coupled with a brief fascination with the National Geographic channel's "Rebel Monkeys" leads me to believe monkeys are wild, uncontrollable, undisciplined deceitful creatures. Surely that can't be a metaphor for my thoughts?
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| Monkee Mind - a type of monkey mind where wacky, zany thoughts are accompanied by a catchy pop tune |
Much like sitting down to meditate.
And, much like my thoughts when I meditate, zoom-- off the puppy went. Four pounds of fluff and exuberance relishing his freedom, racing down the sidewalk, jumping over curbs, yipping at squirrels, and sniffing anything and everything in his path. It seemed he was never by my side, just enjoying the walk. He was always striving to get to the next tree, the next bush, the next discarded bite of muffin outside Starbucks.
Much like my thoughts when I meditate.
But the more we walked, the easier it became. He eventually learned to heel, content, for the most part, to just trot along beside me. Now, three years later, he knows a little tug on the leash means he needs to refocus his energy and get back on the sidewalk. He pauses or sits at street corners instead of racing across regardless of whether or not the coast is clear. But every once in a while as we're reaching the home stretch he spies a squirrel and off he goes. Or a patch of grass is so enticing that he keeps wanting to return to it over and over again.
Meditation has gotten easier the longer I've practiced but that's all I've been able to manage thus far-- practicing. I used to hate the word practice when used to describe meditation because I always think of the adage "practice makes perfect." But practice doesn't make us perfect. Nothing does. Practice may make it easier for me to meditate on any given day. And practice has helped enforce the habit of meditating. However just as there are some days when my mind heels during meditation, there are other days when the sun is shining and there are squirrels just begging to be chased.
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| Henry frolicking post-walk |
