Look Up!
During a walk a few weeks ago, I realized that I spent a significant amount of time looking down. There’s a good reason for it. I concentrate on not tripping over Half Moon in his cart as he cuts in front of me for a better treat-begging position. I watch the leashes that skim the ground around me because Half Moon’s wheels attract Helen’s long line and Andy’s leash, creating a tangled mess that grinds our walk to a halt — or worse. Andy’s leash sometimes grabs his back legs until he’s hog-tied himself, and again, we have to stop and detangle. As for poor Helen, I do my best to keep Half Moon from running his wheels up the back of her legs when they stop to sniff, but he suffers from a bad case of FOMO. So many reasons to look down.
But this was about more than just keeping my legs out of the cat’s cradle of leashes at my feet. What was I missing by being so hyper-focused on the present? Granted, having two mobility-challenged dogs that are urinary and fecal incontinent and a senior dog with severe osteoarthritis in her hips requires a lot of care and paying attention in the moment. But I was missing everything else. There’s a concept in psychology called tunnel vision. During high stress, humans tend to focus on the core aspect of a situation at the expense of the periphery, excluding the surrounding details. It’s not about vision, it’s about attention. My attention had narrowed to everyday management, like expressing bladders and bowels and looking for pain and limping or listening for scuffing paws. I was missing the surrounding joy. I was so focused on the day-to-day care of my mobility-challenged crew that I couldn’t see how wonderful it was that they were in my life.
I was missing Half Moon’s jaunty gait and toothy smile as he ran across the grassy park in his cart. I was missing Andy bounding forward, stopping to inspect every hole, digging feverishly at a few, turning to look at me with dirt and grass stuck in his beard and eyebrows. I was missing Helen’s sweet, excited eyes and O-shaped mouth (complete with boxer underbite and crocked little teeth) anticipating the next lizard adventure. But I saw them on that walk. I lifted my head enough to see the joy. I could see beyond the responsibility and worst-case scenarios to see how much I loved them.
During that walk, I realized that it’s okay for me to be in MY moment, too, to look up and think about where we are and how far we’ve come. We’ve done a good job together. We’re a very good team. Most importantly, I realized that it’s vital to look up and honor our journey and consider the beauty of where we’re headed and how amazing this journey has been, is, and can be. My world seems brighter now. I can be focused on their needs, but no longer at the expense of the warm glow of joy that surrounds us.
