What Is Seen

Yesterday, on a walk with a dog through an impoverished neighborhood, I came upon this planter box. I had to take a photo. I'd walked this street countless times, but I'd never seen the flowers or their creative "pot." Each day is like this. I walk past the same neighborhoods with one or two or perhaps three dogs on a leash and see something new and interesting -- a house, a car, a yard, a mailbox, a flower -- as if someone were sprinkling presents on the path before me each and every day.

Helicopters woke me last night. They were searching for a suspect, the white of their searchlights tracing the grid of each block. I couldn't sleep. Instead, I got up and watched the helicopters fly their pattern methodically through the sky. My head ached, a migraine knocked at my temples and so I drank a glass of chocolate milk, downed a heavy dose of medication, and waited for the swelling and throbbing in my head to subside. By the time I got back to sleep it was 3:30 in the morning.

In the past -- as in when I was a teacher -- nights like that one would drive me insane. I knew I needed every ounce of energy to survive a classroom day and lack of sleep made it difficult to do my job well. But I'm no longer a teacher and while I'm still grappling with what that means in my life and while I was still irritated that I didn't sleep well, I knew I'd be okay today -- tired, but okay. Which is weird because my work is now much more physically demanding than when I was teaching.

Teaching was all in my head. It was endless hours of questions, of thinking one step (sometimes ten) ahead of what needed to happen next, and of planning for all the options if things didn't go as planned. I came home exhausted both physically and emotionally though I didn't put out much physical exertion. Still my body was tired because of the obstacle course my head had to navigate.

Now the obstacle course is physical. While I must engage my brain to figure out the dog walking schedule of the day, the actual walking is a relatively quiet activity. There are no questions, no need to think about the next activity, no worries about options if things fell apart. There is this dog then that dog and on most days, two or three dogs at once. And then it's off to the hydrotherapy pool where I greet the owners and their dogs, spend an hour in a warm pool encouraging an elderly dog to use an injured limb or thinking with my hands as I massage a nervous, overweight hound.

I lift dachshunds in and out of the pool, maneuver mountain dogs to the side of the pool, and level hounds in the water as they tend to swim vertically at first. I talk softly to scared mutts, ignore nervous Labradors who seek my attention, and cuddle with Newfoundlands whose nature is to trust without much encouragement. After miles of walking all day, the warm pool is an elixir for my tired muscles. There's a meditation to my work, a meditation I never found while teaching. 

And every day there is something new, something unseen before. I found the soft belly of a Bernese Mountain Dog especially comforting last night. She's had the same belly every time she's come in, but last night it was particular warm and inviting. I saw a side of my own dog I never knew before -- the one who allowed other dogs to tackle him like nephews on their favorite uncle. And then later, he remained calm and mature when my boss's Doberman raced around him in blissful puppy joy. A hawk followed me through the park yesterday and the trees seemed to enjoy the cooler weather as much as I did.

There is so much unseen or maybe it's that I've never had the space in my head to be able to see it before. People always ask me if I miss teaching. I really haven't been away from it long enough to really know, but at this point I have to say that I don't. This doesn't mean that I'm not proud of the work I did as a teacher or that I regret my choice to become one. I think it means that I've walked that road to its end and now I'm on a new journey, a new road. I think it means that I've seen the sights I needed to see and am seeking a different landscape I can explore with different eyes.

This road is calmer. This road allows me to breathe and take in the full sensory experience of my life. It's not a better road than the one I walked teaching, it's just very different and if it's better, its betterness comes from the fact that it is the road I need to be on now. It is the road that lets me see what must be seen at this time in my life.

And so I'm tired this morning, but still ready to step into the pool with a nervous hound, an aging Lab, and a sweet and compliant spaniel.  A long day ahead.