Downward-Facing Dog
I am lying face-up on the floor, and the dog stands over me, concerned.
Finn—our “Bernese Mountain Doodle”—is going to be four years old in March, and he’s a very smart and good boy. He knows various commands (though the quarter of his brain that is “poodle” often makes him pause to consider his options before obeying), he’s extremely emotionally intelligent, he loves all people and dogs everywhere, and he understands the boundaries of our unfenced yard and our unconventional routines.
But one thing he still can’t quite wrap his brain around is yoga.
To be fair, I never did a very good job of getting him used to watching me stretch and sway and balance and wince and audibly breathe, and to him it probably looks like I’m torturing myself.
So whenever I (rarely) pull out the mat and attempt a few minutes of practice, he immediately jumps into protection mode, trying everything he can to get me to stop. He lies on the mat. He rolls under me. He licks my face and hands. He body-slams me. He plays the jester (look how funny I am! please stop this madness, Mom!). And no matter how much I tell him to go and lie on his own bed nearby, or try to shove him away, he never stays away for long.
It’s a little tough to find your zen in shavasana when a 90-pound ball of fur is standing over you, staring down, all jowls and floppy ears and sad brown eyes, deeply worried for your wellbeing.
Habits
The thing is, it’s all my fault that Finn isn’t used to me doing yoga. He’s an extremely routine-oriented dog, and he becomes accustomed to things around this house very quickly…as long as we do them daily.
But I have never been adept at forming a daily practice. Of yoga, for sure, but also of most things I find spiritually meaningful, like prayer, meditation, devotionals, art, freewriting, singing, study, even a little bit of mindful tidying-up.
I have a corvid brain: very interested in shiny things. I collect objects to make good habits easier and more tactile, like prayer books and devotionals and psalters and prayer beads and candles and oils and cards and icons and and and—
The objects work for a little while, when they’re shiny. But as soon as routines become routine, they lose their luster, and I reach for something else, following the dopamine trail to the Next New Thing.
Of course, I know I’m not alone in this. How many books have been written and published about habit-forming and behavioral change? A lot. Like…a lot.
Because as humans, we’re really good at not doing the things we want to do, knowing that those things will make us feel healthy, in a holistic sense. It takes a long time and a lot of effort to make something stick so much that we feel bereft without it.
A Little Extra Grace
My dog and his woes are kind of a perfect word-picture for my brain; both require a similar level of patience, I think.
I know that if I pull out the mat and do a bit of yoga every day, even for a few minutes, Finn will eventually get used to it, and he’ll figure out the best way to be involved and aware nearby without driving me crazy.
Similarly, I know that if I do a little bit of spiritual practice of some kind every day, even for a few minutes, my brain will eventually find it so natural that the lack of practice on a given day will feel alien.
It’s like brushing your teeth. If you’ve been brushing your teeth nightly since childhood, it feels weird to NOT brush your teeth, and the rare nights you forget to do it, you spend an hour lying in bed, thinking, “What did I forget? I know I forgot something…something feels off…”
(just me?)
But patience begins with an understanding of my unique brain and how it works. This God-crafted corvid brain of mine, so easily distracted, so easily stymied by sameness. I don’t believe it’s an accident that I have this magpie mind, as awkward as it is to navigate. This same brain lets me play and imagine and dream and create, and for that I’m grateful.
She just needs a little extra grace sometimes, that’s all.
On a practical level, I’ve put accommodations in place. Shiny-seeker brain likes to feel that my choices are random and fun, so I turned spiritual practice into a game. I’ve written activities that make me feel spiritually fulfilled on little cards, and I pull one at random every day, committing to it for twenty minutes. Random. Shiny. Fun! With yoga, I use these gimmicky dice that I bought years ago, each face of the die a yoga pose. I roll the dice and do the pose. Random. Shiny. Fun!
It’s not nothing, see. It’s something. And often, something is enough.
I hope to report someday soon that my magpie mind craves daily yoga, and that my dear sweet dog lies calmly nearby to watch while I stretch.
I hope so. Maybe someday.
But for now, learning grace is a daily practice. And Finn, my brain, and me…we’re all just taking it slow.
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I’ve taken a few of my dogs to obedience class. I get the concept of routine and setting good boundaries but there’s a part of me that loves chaos.
This was beautiful S. E. My dog Miso is part poodle and you described that particular strain of brain perfectly. Of course Miso is a good boy too, but he definitely has his own ideas. Being an ultramarathoner nature is my sanctuary, home of thin places. Your reminder of self grace is so needed. Thank you for affirming that.