Down, up, downward, upward facing dog

August 13, 2022

This morning I thought I finally found a way to do yoga without being bothered. Since adopting my husky, I often find myself in downward dog with a fluffy white face in mine, barking as if to say, “What are you doing? Are you a dog?! Do you want to play?!” So, this morning I set him up to play in the water and pulled the dog gate between us in the garden.

I began a flow, turning on music to help quiet my mind from thoughts about yesterday and the day in front of me (chores, socializing, expectations of myself). I went through a few poses and was tapping into moments of presence and awareness in my body.

Until my husky got bored and started barking at me. 

The loud protest from this once cute and fluffy good boy jolts my nervous system.  I open my eyes. I stare at him with wide eyes, willing him to be quiet. It doesn’t work. I sigh as I try to reset, closing my eyes and feeling my feet on the mat –"BARK bark bark." Jolted again, now frustrated, I try to adjust the space to settle him so I myself can settle.

…"BARK bark bark!"

My heart starts beating faster. I sigh, resigning to the fate that my nervous system will “forever” be jacked-up. I feel angry. I see the trailhead of a path to self-pity and helplessness.

I adjust again, trying to soothe him. I try to practice flexibility by letting him join me on my side of the gate. He quietly joins me, carefully avoiding stepping on my yoga mat (by chance, I’m sure, but I’m grateful nonetheless). I feel a lightness and joy, and return to my cat–cow poses.

He poops.

My heart sinks and my face gets warm. I think, "Of course," and go clean it up. I get distracted by fallen leaves and bark chips out of place on the patio and begin compulsively tidying around me.

The dog and I do a few more rounds of barking and settling. I’m up and down from my mat. I feel in my body how I’m trying to force myself to relax, unaccepting of what is happening within and around me. I long for even ten seconds of peace.

I realize what I'm doing: Trying to control my environment. Thinking the conditions need to be "just so." Letting the stress in my body take charge. Becoming distracted. 

Another iteration of managing keeps me from being present.

I'm hot by this point so move my mat more into the shade, realizing continuing to try to push through is not going to get me anywhere. I turn off the music, as I'm overstimulated. Thankfully, the dog begins to play again, leaving me to tune into the quiet. 

Compassion emerges.

I take some deep breaths, and begin moving with the energy of my body–patting my chest, rubbing my arms, and swaying back and forth. I arch toward the sky and find stillness. I see through closed eyelids how the sun perfectly envelops the earth. I feel her warmth against my face and a gentle, soothing breeze. In this moment of allowing, I feel calm and joyful. 

Compassion reminds me how every moment is an opportunity to be present with “what is.” She doesn’t criticize me. She doesn’t dwell in regret or anger. She doesn’t long for anything to be different. She holds me in stillness for these brief moments, so the sun and the breeze–the joy and the calm–can flow to every cell in my body.

Meanwhile, the dog chases flies around the patio. And compassion looks at him and smiles.